The San Lorenzo Job REDUX
by Ginipig
Summary: The San Lorenzo Job from Eliot's point of view. After the events of The Big Bang Job, Eliot wonders if he should move on from Leverage Consulting. As he returns to San Lorenzo for the first time in years, he remembers why he left Moreau and the one and a half times he saved General Flores, all while trying to keep the team alive and defeat Moreau once and for all.
1. Chapter 1

_Much to my chagrin, I do not own Leverage._

_._

_._

_._

Chapter 1

"General Flores, can you please tell my team what you were saying earlier about Moreau?" Eliot said, standing at ease.

"I have not been General for a long time ... Commander," General Juan Flores said, smiling.

A small smile crept to Eliot's lips. It was too bad that they only ever talked when it was something about Moreau. He missed Juan. But the General would never leave San Lorenzo — "They need me here," he'd say—and Eliot … Eliot could never go back.

"Moreau bankrolled Ribera's political career. Within a year, Ribera had bribed and _murdered_ his way into the presidency. Anyone who opposes him is declared an enemy of the state. They are imprisoned, and by law, their assests are seized, their families bankrupted."

"This is why the General is in hiding. He's your candidate running against Ribera," Eliot told the team. He wished, for the umpteenth time, that the General would just once try to keep a low profile. But the man loved San Lorenzo too much for that.

"General," Nate said, "I understand you're taking quite a risk for yourself and your family by talking to us." He (_finally—show some respect, Nate_) stood up to address the General. "We certainly owe you a debt."

"No, I'm the one with the debt. Spencer saved my life … twice."

Eliot chuckled. "Once … and a half."

"How do you half save someone's life?" Parker asked.

Eliot paused, then decided to go ahead and tell his team. He brought the question on, after all. "Because I was the one sent to kill him, so I figure that only counts as a half. Right?" He smirked at the General, who smirked knowingly back.

"That actually makes sense," Hardison commented.

Eliot rolled his eyes at Hardison, but he smiled to himself. It had been a long time since he had made that joke. If anyone asked why, he would always tell them it was partly to tease the General, and partly to lighten the mood, which was true. The real reason he did it, though, was because he didn't think he deserved to be lauded. Not because he because he actually felt like it counted as half — that was the joke — but because he didn't think he should be honored at all for saving the General's life, since it was really the General that had saved his, a thousand times over.

He was snapped out of his reverie by thumping noises coming over the screen.

"What is it?" he asked with growing dread.

"I don't know … "

"General, is that a secure line?" he asked, fearing the worst.

Then the worst happened. He watched in helpless horror as the General was grabbed by armed men. _No … _

"I thought you said this thing was safe!" he yelled at Hardison, because that was the only thing he could do besides watch the General struggle before being dragged away by the men … men who belonged to —

Moreau suddenly appeared on screen. "Manticore?" he asked, probably responding to something Hardison was saying. "Thank you for destroying Duberman last year! You bankrupted his company, put his old servers on the open market. It's amazing what $10 million and some clever tech support can do … Hey, don't blame yourselves for this, Ribera makes sure I stay safe and I make sure he stays president." He paused, then added smugly, as only Moreau could, "Actually, to be fair, I wouldn't have found Flores if you hadn't contacted him, so, uh, go ahead and _do_ blame yourselves!" And he _laughed_. The bastard.

"You can't just kill a war hero like Flores," Eliot growled, his rage building. He had forgotten just how sick Moreau could be. That's what made him so terrifying.

"No, of course not. We've got U.N. election inspectors here, world media. He's just imprisoned until after the election. Then he'll have a car accident. You know how these things are done ... or, uh, you used to." He smirked, enjoying the look on Eliot's face. He always had loved taunting people. "Sleep tight." Moreau sneered, before cutting the feed.

Eliot trembled all over. With rage, with guilt, with other emotions he didn't dare show in front of the team.

He barely heard Nate say, "Eliot ... " He was already halfway out the door.

He needed to hit something, hard, before the rage devolved into emotions he had always been awful at expressing.

.

.

.

He hit the bag over and over and over and over. He hit it until he was out of breath, until he needed water, until his knuckles were bloody, but the rage wouldn't ebb, the helplessness wouldn't recede. His phone rang and rang, then stopped — voicemail. He was glad he had come home to his workout room; he had thought about going to a park and beating up some local thugs, but nobody deserved to be beaten that badly ... except Moreau. His phone rang, then stopped. He kept hitting. There was blood all over his hands now, but at least it was his own blood this time ... He kept hitting. His phone rang, then stopped. The rage kept him from feeling any pain. His phone rang, then stopped. Rang, then —

He threw the phone against the wall and it shattered. He knew it was Sophie, or Nate, or maybe even Hardison. At least Parker knew when to leave well enough alone.

He took another swing at the bag, but his energy was gone. He knew what was coming, but he tried to fight it. He took another swing and collapsed, hanging onto the bag for support. Then the tears came. They mixed with the blood and the sweat on his face. There was no stopping it now. He dragged himself to the wall and leaned with his back against it, drew his knees to his chest and sobbed, like a child, until he could barely breathe. Then he let himself fall over to the floor, and tried to think.

How had he let this happen? He had called the General right after Moreau left for San Lorenzo. Juan had been surprised; Eliot hadn't called him in almost two years. He was calm, as always, and told Eliot they'd figure out a plan. He mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that he was in hiding because of the election, but he told Eliot they'd be in touch. When Nate decided to finish Moreau, they had set up today's talk with the team. Why?

_It's not like he was hiding for his fucking health, _Eliot thought. They both knew what Moreau was capable of. Why hadn't he insisted on a more secure call?

It wasn't surprising that the General hadn't objected. He had always put his country and his cause — freedom and democracy for San Lorenzo — ahead of his own safety, and even that of his family. But Eliot should have caught it. Why hadn't he?

He knew why. He was exhausted. After what happened in the warehouse, the nightmares had started again. And not the usual ones he had nightly — there was a reason he said he only slept 90 minutes a day (an exaggeration, but not by much). These were bad. Night _terrors_, not nightmares. He'd wake up screaming, heart racing, in a cold sweat. He couldn't even sleep with the lights out. They hadn't been this bad since he'd joined the team. And even Eliot Spencer couldn't go a week without sleep. He was off his game.

And the General was suffering for it. After everything the man had gone through at the hands of Moreau — countless injuries, death threats, assassination attempts, threats against his family, the loss of his only son — this is what finally got him? A fucking phone call?

Eliot had promised the Flores family that he'd never let anything happen to the General. Almost a decade ago the man had saved Eliot from himself; he'd been the father that Eliot needed when he was at his lowest, and Eliot had helped Juan fill the void after the loss of his son. That's why he hadn't mentioned the warehouse when they talked. He knew what the General would think, and he couldn't bear the thought of the disappointment in Juan's eyes when he learned Eliot had … relapsed.

He had told Nate they were out of their league. But he wouldn't listen. He never did. The rage was back, but it wasn't helpless this time.

He got out the spare phone Hardison had given him the last time his broke. ("I'm sorry, you're calling me from where?! A _payphone_?! Are you also calling from the Delorean that took you back to the 1990s? Do you have any idea how insecure that is? Where's your cell? ... Dammit, Eliot, we are going to have a strong talk when you get back. A _strong_ talk!") Eliot dialed the only man who was capable of maybe — _maybe _— getting them all out of this alive.

"What's the plan, Nate?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Nate had gotten them a last-minute chartered flight to San Lorenzo by calling the Italian. _Great, _Eliot thought, _someone else who has leverage over us. Just what we need._

The team was sleeping around the spacious cabin, except for Nate, who never seemed to need it. It had been a busy 24 hours as they prepared to leave, and everyone was exhausted, including Eliot. But he couldn't sleep. No, he _wouldn't_ sleep; he badly wanted to, but not in front of the team. He wouldn't let them see the nightmares, because he wouldn't be able to answer the questions that followed. So instead he let the memories overwhelm him.

_Almost a decade ago_

Eliot awoke to a phone ringing, which confused him. He didn't remember asking for a wake-up call. He looked at the clock: _6:37 am_. He _definitely_ didn't ask for a wake-up call that fucking early. Not this week. Eventually it'd stop.

But as he listened to the ringing, he realized it wasn't the very distinctive ring of a hotel wake-up call. It was the very distinctive ring of Moreau's phone. _Shit._ Moreau insisted on being able to contact him at all times, and so he'd been provided with this mobile phone. It was clunky and he hated it, but that was part of the job. He grabbed it, because letting it ring wasn't going to make it stop. Besides, you always picked up for Moreau.

"Spencer."

"Moreau needs you," Chapman snapped over the line.

"Like hell he does. I'm on vacation," Eliot snapped back. He was hoping it would be Moreau himself, not a toady.

"Yes, yes, we all know The Chosen One is on vacation, but he needs you. Now."

Eliot growled. He hated that dumbass nickname, and he wasn't in the mood for Chapman's inferiority complex. "Why don't you do it? Then you can show him what you're made of and finally get the approval you never received as a child."

"What about 'He needs _you_' don't you understand? He told me to call you and tell you to get your ass back here now. Some big job that can't wait, apparently."

Eliot sighed. "Tell him I'll be in first thing tomorrow morning. I'm not in the country."

"He won't be happy about that," Chapman warned.

"He wouldn't be happy if you said it, but he always understands when it's me," Eliot smirked. If his day was going to be ruined, he might at least get some enjoyment by rubbing salt in Chapman's chipped shoulder.

"Fuck you," Chapman snarled, and hung up.

Eliot flopped back down on the pillow and groaned. _Fuck. _He'd better get paid extra for this. Usually Moreau was respectful of Eliot's downtime, so this call was unusual. He lay in bed for a few more minutes, trying to imagine what could be so important.

He turned his head to the woman next to him. She was still sound asleep. Not surprising, after the night she had. Eliot smiled. He couldn't remember her name, but he did remember how much she cost. More than he expected. But she was perfect, just his type, so he splurged. _Worth every penny,_ he smiled. But he was disappointed. He had been looking forward to spending the day in bed while she did all manner of unspeakable things to him.

Eliot grumbled and got out of bed. He showered and gathered his things. It wasn't until he put the cash on the nightstand that he noticed she was awake.

"Where are you going?" she said with a pout. Eliot got a hard-on just thinking about how she'd used that pout last night.

"Work. Duty calls."

"What do you do again?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you. Thanks for last night, darlin'." He left with a wink and a smile that had slain nearly every woman he met, even the ones that weren't paid to swoon at it.

_Dammit, Damien, this had better be fucking important, _he growled. _Like, life-or-death important._

He had no idea.

.

.

.

It was just about eight the next morning when Eliot finally reached Moreau's mansion in San Lorenzo. He had planned to be in the night before, but his train had been late and he'd had to travel all night. He had barely slept and had no time to even go home, much less shower and change. He was seriously regretting not telling Chapman and Moreau to fuck off and going back to sleep yesterday. But no one told Moreau to fuck off. Not who lived to tell about it anyway. _But if someone tries anything, I swear ..._

Moreau's study was packed. He had called the whole team in. _Odd._

"The Chosen One has returned!" Chapman exclaimed when he entered the room. Eliot almost punched him in the neck.

That damned nickname pissed him off even when he wasn't sleep-deprived. When Moreau needed a new Head of Security — the official title, but it obviously included more than that — everyone had assumed that he'd promote from within the organization, specifically Chapman. Chapman especially felt that he would and should get the job. But instead Moreau decided to hire from the outside and chose the best in the personal security/hitting business: Eliot Spencer. No one was happy about it, least of all Chapman, and they let him know by calling him Moreau's Chosen One. After a while, they learned why Eliot was chosen — because he was damn good at what he did — and the nickname lost its appeal. But not with Chapman. Eliot's success made him even more jealous and angry, so he taunted Eliot every chance he could, including in front of Moreau. Moreau didn't stop it; on the contrary, he enjoyed the competition, as long as it didn't interfere with the work. So Eliot had decided to fight fire with fire and dish it right back.

But he was too tired this morning to come up with anything witty, and punching Chapman in the neck wouldn't ingratiate himself to anyone, so he contented himself with a growl.

"Now, now, boys," Moreau cooed with a smile, "settle down. Eliot, good to see you. I apologize for calling you back here, I know I promised you two weeks, but this couldn't wait. Rest assured you will be sufficiently compensated."

Eliot gave Moreau a nod and smiled to himself. That's why he stayed in this job: Moreau paid better than any mob, any corporation, any military, any government or not-officially-a-part-of-the-government entity, or any cute little rebel cause. Eliot knew because he'd worked for them all. This was the best job he'd ever had, hands down.

"What's the job?" he asked.

Moreau handed him a folder.

"William Perez?"

"I want him taken care of."

_About time, _Eliot thought. William Perez had been a thorn in Moreau's side — and therefore Eliot's side — for over a year. He had borrowed a large sum of money from Moreau two years ago, but still hadn't paid it back. Initially he'd been paying the money back in small installments, but by the time the money was due, a large balance was left. He had given Moreau some sob story about a sick child, losing his job, blah blah. Moreau didn't care, and it wasn't Eliot's job to. But Moreau had been busy and hadn't had time to deal with it. Eliot had paid Perez several visits to convince him to pay Moreau back, and Eliot could be _very_ convincing. But nothing had worked. Moreau must have found some time to deal with it now.

Eliot frowned. "You called me back from vacation for this? This is so straightforward, even Chapman could handle it."

He answered Chapman's growl with a devilish grin. "Hey, I'm just trying to give you some opportunities to show what you're capable of. Visibility is everything." He winked, and for a second it looked as if Chapman was going to punch _him_ in the throat. _I would love to see you try, Chapman._

Moreau smiled. "True, but let me finish. I don't want this done the usual way. I want the Maroni treatment."

Maroni was a local gangster who had been dumb enough to think he could unseat Damien Moreau. When Moreau figured out Maroni's plans, he told Eliot to make an example of him. When all was said and done, Moreau had called Eliot's work "inspired." Eliot had to agree. The things he'd done to Maroni were things he'd never done before or since; things he'd only ever had done to him, and some new things he was pretty sure no one had ever done before. It was the job Eliot was proudest of. Was it a bit much for someone who owed Moreau money? Maybe, but that wasn't Eliot's call. But there was something that still didn't make sense.

"I only need a couple guys for that. Why did you call everyone in?"

"You know, that's why I like you Eliot. You always get right to the point." Moreau smiled at him fondly. "You're right, you don't need everyone to give Perez the Maroni treatment. But I want to make an example of him. I can't let people think I've gone soft. Your previous visits had apparently no effect. So I'm going to punish him once and for all. You're not just going to take care of Perez, you're going to take care of his whole family."

The room was silent. They had never done anything like that before.

Eliot was sure he had misunderstood. "The — the whole _family_?" he stuttered.

"That's right."

Eliot opened the file again. It took him three tries; his hands had stopped working. "Sir," he said — always "Sir", never "Damien" in front of the men, like he was some sort of high-ranking general ordering his troops into battle — , "he has a wife and six kids, ranging in age from 18 to..." Eliot's breath caught in his throat, "2 years old. Four of them are girls."

Eliot didn't give a shit whether the kids were boys or girls, but girls didn't usually grow up to join Flores's freedom fighters, so he wasn't sure what Moreau's reasoning was. _Children?_ That seemed a bit much, even for Moreau.

"I don't care if they're boys, girls, or something in between. I want them gone. They need to be made an example."

"But sir..." Eliot could barely breathe — this wasn't right. "Sir, maybe we could give Perez one last chance. Let me talk to him again, I'll let him know what's at stake, maybe he'll — "

"This isn't up for debate, Spencer. You have your orders. I want it done tonight. Make a plan and make sure everyone knows what they need to do. Call me when it's done. Is that clear?"

Eliot paused. Too long. "Y-yes, sir."

"Good. You're all dismissed. Spencer, stay, I'd like a word."

Eliot cringed. _Shit_, he called him Spencer. Moreau never called Eliot by his last name unless he was being formal or he was pissed. Eliot figured in this case it was both.

Chapman shot him a look before he closed the door. Eliot turned back to Moreau.

"Damien, I — "

"You look like shit. Did you sleep last night?" Moreau looked concerned.

Maybe this wouldn't be a chew-out session after all. Maybe Moreau was going to give Eliot extra orders — that wasn't unusual, especially if it was something that could help or hurt Moreau politically, like this. Maybe they'd pretend those were the orders, but have Moreau "change his mind" at the last minute so he'd look merciful. Maybe Eliot wouldn't have to do this ...

"Not much, but I'm fine. Listen, Damien, I wanted to — "

"Because I thought that might be why you completely undermined me in front of my men," Moreau snarled. "Is it?"

"Damien — "

"This is not a democracy, Spencer. You work for me. I give you orders and you carry them out. That's your job. You offer your opinion only if I ask for it. Is there something you don't understand about that?"

Eliot felt his stomach turn to lead. _He's not fucking around. He's really gonna — the whole family?_

"Yes, sir… I just want to make sure this is definitely what you want to do. This will affect how the country views you." He had to try to talk him out of it.

"And that is precisely the point," Moreau smiled. "They've gotten complacent. They need to be reminded what I'm capable of... and what you're capable of."

Am _I capable of this?_

"I just — "

"Do we have a problem, Spencer? Are you arguing with me?"

Eliot paused. "No. No problem."

"Good. And let the men loose. They've been whining that you've been having all the fun lately, but that's my fault. Too many small jobs that require only you. This is a big one, and I want all hands on deck. So plan around that."

Eliot nodded, because he couldn't speak.

Moreau sat and looked at some papers on his desk. Eliot took that as his sign to leave.

"Oh, and Spencer? Challenge me in front of the men again and you're gone. I don't care how good you are. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Eliot managed to say. He understood, he just wasn't sure if he cared.

.

.

.

Eliot stood underneath the scalding water, washing off the blood. It was done.

And so was he.

For the first time since he started down this path, he wasn't sure what was next. When Aimee had gotten married, he liberated Croatia and did the odd retrieval jobs around eastern Europe and Asia before he realized he could get paid to do what he did best: hurt people. He'd never looked back.

Until now. What he'd done last night was the worst thing he'd ever done in his entire life. He could never undo it. Why had he done it?

After his conversation with Moreau, he'd agonized over what to do. He thought about telling Moreau he was leaving; telling Moreau to go fuck himself; skipping town without telling Moreau anything; trying to warn the Perez family; trying to help smuggle the Perez family out of the country. None were feasible. He couldn't just leave; Moreau would just send Chapman or someone else. He didn't have the resources to get the Perezes out of the country, even as well-off as he was. He was surely being watched, so any warning he could have given wouldn't have helped anyway. And even if he _had_ warned them, they probably wouldn't have believed him. Eliot Spencer, Moreau's Rottweiler, warning them that Moreau wanted them dead? He wouldn't have believed himself.

So he did the only thing he could: he did the job.

Except he didn't. "Let them loose," Moreau had said, and in his helplessness, Eliot was ready to do it. He'd let them have their fun, and he'd wait outside until it was over. But that changed when he saw the look in Chapman's eyes as he grabbed hold of the 10-year-old girl. Her name had been Anna. But Chapman didn't want to kill her, at least not right away. The hunger in his eyes showed that he wanted to ... enjoy her first. He wanted to —

Eliot fell to his hands and knees and retched onto the floor of the shower. Not that there was anything left. Blood wasn't the only thing he needed to wash off when he got home.

But it was the only thing he _couldn't_ wash off. As he looked at his hands, he saw layers upon layers of it. Years' worth of it. He heard their voices, their pleading, their crying, their last breaths. He saw them all, and he knew all of their names.

The water was freezing now, but that wasn't why Eliot shivered. He pulled his knees to his chest and ... nothing. He felt nothing. Not anger, not grief, not sadness — nothing. He wanted to cry for them, for himself, but he couldn't. He wanted to feel rage at Moreau, at _himself_, but he couldn't. He was gone. He wasn't human anymore. He was an empty shell with blood on his hands, on his _soul._

And the blood wouldn't wash off.

He chuckled mirthlessly as he thought of Lady MacBeth. "Out, damned spot! Out, I say!" Did Shakespeare understand how she felt when he wrote those lines? Did he understand how Eliot felt?

Lady MacBeth had committed suicide because of her madness. Madness caused by the awful things she had done. Maybe he should kill himself, too. Maybe that was the only way to stop the emptiness.

The phone rang. Eliot knew who it was. He answered.

"Get over here. Now." It was a voice Eliot had only heard directed at other people: the enemies of Damien Moreau.

Maybe he wouldn't have to kill himself. Maybe Moreau would do it for him.

.

.

.

When he arrived at Moreau's mansion, it was dawn. Sunrise. It was beautiful. He'd always loved the sunrises and sunsets in San Lorenzo. But not today. He didn't love anymore. He couldn't feel anything.

The door to the study was closed. He knocked.

"Enter."

He did. Moreau was pacing the room, as pissed as Eliot had ever seen him. But Eliot wasn't scared. He couldn't feel anything.

"Spencer, how nice of you to join us. Chapman, give us the room."

Of course it had been Chapman. He had known it would be.

"But sir — " Chapman complained, clearly wanting a front row seat to Eliot's downfall.

"OUT!" Moreau yelled. Chapman scampered out the door.

"Do you want to explain to me what happened last night, Spencer? I gave you explicit orders. Do you remember that?"

Spencer again. But he didn't cringe this time. He couldn't feel pain.

"Yes, I remember that, Damien." It was the first time he'd spoken since he'd finished the job. His voice sounded odd to him. Foreign.

"Then you remember that I told you that I wanted the family gone?"

"The family is gone, Damien. I did it myself." His voice was emotionless. Like him.

"But I gave you very specific orders about how it was to be done. You didn't follow them."

"No."

Moreau looked surprised. Maybe he had expected Eliot to try to lie about it. Or at least argue. But Eliot didn't have any more fight in him.

"That's right. You didn't. Chapman said you ordered all the men to stand down, including him. You made them wait outside while you 'took care of things'. When you were done, you left without a word. Chapman said they hadn't been given the Maroni treatment."

"That's correct." Eliot was mildly surprised that Chapman hadn't exaggerated. Maybe he knew he didn't have to.

"Why did you blatantly disregard my orders?"

"Because I disagreed with them. The family didn't deserve it. But they were still made an example. You extinguished a whole family, Damien. Does it matter how they died?"

It didn't matter to Eliot. Dead was dead. There was blood on his hands no matter how it had been done.

"It does matter! You undermined me in front of my men! After I told you that if you did it again, you'd be gone. Do you remember that?"

"Yes."

"So you're aware you just threw away everything you had. Do you even want this job?"

Eliot shrugged. He didn't care either way.

"It pays well."

Moreau looked stunned. "Is this because I called you away from vacation?"

Eliot scowled. Is that what Moreau thought? He couldn't think of any other reason why Eliot would disobey his orders?

Then it hit him. Moreau didn't feel anything either, did he? He ordered people killed, and it didn't faze him. _Huh._ Maybe that was his problem last night. He felt too much. But now he didn't. He couldn't feel anything. And that made him perfect for Moreau's Head of Security. Maybe he wanted this job after all.

So he lied. "Yeah. I was pissed. So I fucked up your job. But the point was still made. They were made an example. I don't see what the problem is."

Moreau laughed. Like he actually thought this was funny. Maybe it was funny, Eliot couldn't tell.

"I've always liked you, Eliot." _Eliot again. _"You have the biggest balls of anyone I've ever known. I really would hate to see you go. But I have to punish you."

Eliot nodded.

"So I'll make you a deal. I'm giving you one last job. If you pull it off, you can stay."

"What's the job?"

"Kill Flores."

It was Eliot who laughed this time. _Suicide it is, then._

.

.

.

"Are you thinking about your friend?"

The sound Eliot made when he heard Parker's question was one that he'd never made before in his life.

Parker laughed. "That was an awesome sound. Can you do it again?"

"Jesus, Parker! Don't sneak up on people like that! And no, I won't make it again!" His heart was pounding.

She stopped smiling. "I snuck up on you? I've only done that once before, and that was when you were nervous about singing." She smiled her big smile. "When you were the Fiddle! Do you remember that?"

"Of course I remember that, Parker. Kinda hard to forget."

She looked concerned now. "Why did I sneak up on you this time? Was it because you were thinking about your friend, the General?"

"Yeah ... I was."

Parker looked upset now. "Hardison feels really bad about that. He thinks you hate him."

Eliot looked over at Hardison, who had fallen asleep while working. His laptop was balanced precariously on his legs, his phone was in one hand, and an orange soda was in the other. Eliot wasn't sure he'd ever seen Hardison sleep laying down.

He felt a twinge of guilt as he turned back to Parker. "I don't hate him, Parker. It wasn't his fault."

"Then why did you yell at him?"

Eliot sighed. "Because I was scared."

Parker snorted. "Ha! Yeah right! You never get scared. Just mad."

Eliot looked into her eyes. So young, so ... innocent. She had seen some awful things in her life — not as awful as the things he'd seen, but still terrible. Bounced around the system. In and out of juvie. Probably abused, which made Eliot clench his fists, as it always did when he thought of it. How had she come away from all of that as innocent and naive as she was?

"Of course I get scared, Parker. I only get mad to cover it up."

"So whenever you're mad, that means you're scared?"

Eliot smiled. She really was like a child sometimes. "Of course not. Sometimes I really do get mad, but sometimes I only get mad because I'm scared and I don't know what else to do."

Parker thought about it. "So what kinds of things are you scared of?"

_Losing the people I care about ... disappointing the people I care about ... not being able to protect the people I care about ... becoming the Rottweiler again ..._

"I get scared whenever you guys are in danger and I can't help you."

"You do? Why?"

_Shit. _He sucked at this. Why couldn't she talk to Sophie?

"Is it because you like us and don't want anything to happen to us?" Parker asked.

Eliot smiled. "Yeah, Parker, I like you guys."

"And you like the General, and you don't want anything to happen to him? That's why you saved his life twice, right? Oh, sorry, once and a half." She smiled.

Eliot looked away. _Please don't ask me, Parker. Please ..._

"But why do you like him so much? I mean, you like us because we're your team. Were you on a team with him a long time ago, when he was a General and you were a Commander?" She giggled. "Commander. That sounds like Commodore, like in Pirates of the Caribbean ... hehe, you'd be funny as a pirate."

Eliot rolled his eyes.

"But seriously, were you on a team with him?"

_Yes, after he saved me ... _He couldn't explain to her his relationship with the General, because she wouldn't understand.

"Sorta, yeah ... " _Wait a minute._ "Actually, Parker, you know how you feel about Archie? How you did that job at Wakefield because you didn't want him to be in danger?"

She looked at her hands. "Yeah ... "

"Well, that's how I feel about the General. He took me in and helped me when I needed it. He helped me stop ... " He stopped. He was getting dangerously close to things he'd rather not talk about.

"He helped you stop doing that thing you don't do anymore?"

A cold pang sliced right through his heart. _Yeah, that thing I don't do anymore ... except for last week. _She couldn't ever know. None of them could ever know. The only thing worse than the look of disappointment in Juan's eyes would be the looks of horror in their eyes. Sophie had even said, "You're not that man anymore." If they ever found out that he _was_ still that man, that he never really stopped ...

"Yeah ... that thing I don't do anymore ... " He turned away from her. He was trembling, he was close to losing it, and he couldn't let her see that.

"Eliot?" He flinched when she touched his arm. He wished she would go away.

Then all of a sudden her arms were wrapped around him, her head leaning against his shoulder. He froze. She didn't usually hug him, or anyone.

"Don't be scared, Eliot. We'll save him." She pulled away, smiling mischievously. "Nate has a plan!"

Then she skipped away, grabbed some chocolate from the fridge, and went back to picking the locks she'd brought with her.

He was alone again. He wished she would come back. His heart was a little bit warmer now.

_This plan had better be the best you've ever come up with, Nate._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Eliot was looking out the window, thinking about going back to San Lorenzo, when a voice said, "You look exhausted."

He turned to see Nate looking at him from across the wide aisle. He had papers strewn all over, his hair was sticking up at odd angles, and he was on bottle number who-knew-what of whiskey.

"You should talk," Eliot said, careful not to meet Nate's eyes. He hadn't been able to look him in the eyes since what happened at the warehouse.

"Hmm, yes, except I've only been sleepless for about 24 hours. You've been sleepless for what now? A week?"

He froze. _Fuck you, Nate. I asked you not to talk about it ..._

"Technically I promised you I wouldn't mention it to them. So this isn't against the rules," Nate said.

Damn him, he always could seem to tell what Eliot was thinking.

"You should get some rest, Eliot. I need you at your best for the next few days, and if you — "

"I'll be at my best, Nate," Eliot snarled, "because I know what Moreau is capable of. Anything less will get people hurt, or worse. More than they already are ..." he added softly, almost to himself. "The question is, will you be at your best?" he said harshly, "Because anything less — "

"Will get people hurt, or worse," Nate said softly. "I know what Moreau is capable of, too."

He looked at Eliot. Their eyes met for a millisecond, but before Eliot could begin to read what they said, he turned his head to look out the window again. He was trembling again.

"I just ..." Nate paused, as if gathering his thoughts. _Unusual._ He took a deep breath, then, "If you ever need anyone to talk to — "

"My first phone call will be to the emotionally stunted drunk with a God complex, don't you worry," Eliot snarled. He could see Nate looking at him through the reflection in the window, but couldn't read his eyes.

Nate sighed. "Just try to get some rest if you can."

"Yeah, I'll get right on that," Eliot said curtly. He knew he wasn't being exactly fair, that Nate probably just wanted to make sure he was okay, but that was the point. He didn't need to talk about it, he didn't need to be reminded, and he didn't need Nate poking his nose where it didn't belong. And he certainly didn't need to be stuck on a nine-hour flight with these people. _Just leave me alone ..._

He looked at his watch. Only a couple hours and they'd be in San Lorenzo.

And then the real fun would begin.

.

.

.

Eliot stood in the shadows outside Flores's compound, waiting for the guard rotation. Moreau had graciously given him two days to plan — yet another offer he never made to the others, just like Eliot's second chance — but Eliot didn't need it. He had memorized the blueprints long ago. How many men had he sent on this suicide mission? Each time he refined his own plan in his head, just in case Moreau decided to stop using it as punishment and decided to send him for real. Eliot never imagined _he_ would be sent as a punishment.

The reason the others had always failed was that they always chose the wrong entrance point. They always decided to go through the back or side entrances. While those entrances had fewer guards — one or two at most — and less visibility from the road, they were also out of the way. The house was a maze inside, and if they didn't know their way — and they usually didn't, having only a couple of hours to look at the blueprints — they would inevitably get lost and stumble upon a guard, and _bam_ — another failed mission/successful punishment. It had gotten to the point where Moreau's men referred to any situation that wouldn't end well as a "Flores mission".

But Eliot had always known the best entrance point was the front. Yes, it was extremely visible and there were four guards, but once in it was a straight shot up the grand staircase and to the right to either the study or the master bedroom, one of two places Flores was likely to be at this time of night. And four guards? Please, Eliot had taken on more than that in bar fights.

He dispatched the first three guards with relative ease, each with a quick blow to the head. The fourth was a bit trickier, but he finally got the man into a chokehold and held him until he passed out. _Only one body on order tonight._

He snuck up the darkened staircase and down the hallway to the right. There were two guards outside the bedroom, but again Eliot dispatched them quickly and quietly. Three and a half minutes and he was already farther than anyone had ever gotten before. He listened at the bedroom door: quiet. Maybe Flores hadn't been awakened. He kicked in the door, closed it behind him, and immediately shoved the closest piece of furniture in front of it — a small dresser. It would only buy him 30 seconds at the most, but he wasn't sure how long he'd have before the alarm sounded, and every second would count.

He cocked his gun. He usually didn't like guns, but he needed to be in and out and know for a fact that the job was done, and a gun was the cleanest and quickest way. He switched on the light and was almost knocked off his feet by a blow to the face.

The old man _had_ woken up. Eliot's nose was bleeding — not broken, but his eyes watered so that he could barely see the second hit.

He stumbled back, but saw his target through watery eyes. He hit the man in the solar plexus and smacked him in the face with the gun, then pushed him away. _Impressive. _Flores, like him, preferred hand-to-hand combat.

With his target on the floor and gasping for breath, Eliot aimed his gun. "Don't move."

To Eliot's surprise, Flores did move. In fact, he stood up, still gasping, but on his feet.

"Eliot Spencer," he gasped. "I knew if anyone would get this far, it would be you."

Eliot was surprised. He had never met Flores in person, and had always imagined him as a tall, formidable man with a deep booming voice. In reality, he was about as tall as Eliot and a bit stocky. His beard and mustache were salt-and-pepper — he was old enough to be Eliot's father — and when he spoke, it was with a soft voice in slightly accented English that Eliot knew could command the attention of a room in spite of its unassuming sound.

Eliot heard scuffling in the bathroom, behind Flores. _His wife must be hiding in there._ But Eliot didn't care; his orders were one body, and he was going to follow them to a T.

"Don't even try it," Eliot said as Flores looked around for a weapon. "Now turn around and get on your knees."

"How many of my men are dead?" Flores asked, ignoring Eliot's command.

Eliot was nonplussed. "None," he said, too surprised to tell anything but the truth.

"Don't lie to me," Flores said. "The Rottweiler is bloodthirsty and vicious, and when the master tells him to kill, he unleashes his fury on anyone who gets in his way. So how many did you kill?"

"I told you, none. Six are unconscious: four at the front gate and two just outside." _Why am I even telling you this? Why the hell does it matter?_ "Now that we're done with pleasantries, turn around and get on your knees."

"I will not," Flores said calmly. "If I'm to die tonight, I will do it with honor: standing and looking you in the eye. And you'll have to look at my face when you pull the trigger."

"Do I look like I'm fucking around, old man?!" Eliot couldn't believe what he was hearing. He wasn't used to people staring death in the face and telling him no. "Now get on your god-damned knees!"

"Or else what, you'll kill me?" Flores asked with a smirk. "Go ahead, I'm ready."

Eliot couldn't believe the balls on this man. He should shoot him in the face right now. He gripped the gun tightly, and looked into the man's eyes as he prepared to pull the trigger ...

Nothing.

He tried again. Nothing. He couldn't do it. His finger was frozen in place, just as his eyes were glued to the dark, resolute, fearless ones of the man in front of him.

He saw in those eyes the eyes of them all. Then he heard them all, just like before, but louder — pleading, begging, crying —

"What are you waiting for?" Flores asked, almost patiently.

Then Eliot started to shake. Uncontrollably. He couldn't hold the gun steady. His legs started to wobble. Sweat poured down his forehead and tears — _Tears? Of what?_ — trickled down his face.

He had been wrong when he thought he still wanted the job. He didn't want it. He had thought that being empty would make him better, more like Moreau. But he wasn't like Moreau. He never had been. If he had, he wouldn't have disobeyed orders last night. But he'd had enough. He couldn't kill anymore. He couldn't see the light in their eyes go out anymore. It wasn't just that he didn't want to; he _couldn't _do it. His very body refused.

He was done.

"Spencer?" The look on Flores's face was one of confusion, and something else. _Was it concern? It couldn't be ..._

Whatever they said, the dark eyes snapped Eliot back to the present. He'd made his decision. He took the magazine out of the gun and emptied the chamber. He threw the magazine and bullet out the window, and the gun to his right, toward the door. There were noises outside. Someone had finally sounded the alarm.

"Get out of the country," he said to the eyes. "Take your wife and your daughter and go. Now."

"Never," Flores whispered. "My people need me."

"Do you hear what I'm saying?!" Eliot nearly shouted. "Moreau will kill you. But he'll kill them first. He'll make you watch while they're tortured and murdered in front of you, and he'll enjoy it! If you're stupid enough to stay, at least send them away."

"Why, or they'll die like the Perez family?"

Eliot flinched. He knew. Of course he knew. He was at war, and he knew the moves of the enemy.

"Yes. He won't hesitate anymore. If you want to save them, send them away."

"Why are you doing this?" Flores asked. "Why do you care?"

"Because they're innocent."

There was banging on the door now. With the dresser, he had 30 seconds at most. He had to get out. If the old man wouldn't listen to his warning, it wasn't because he hadn't tried.

He moved to the window. It was his only escape. They were only on the second floor, and there were bushes to break his fall. He'd jumped from worse.

"Wait!" Flores said sharply.

Eliot turned out of instinct. The tone was that of an officer — and Eliot was trained to listen to that tone.

"Don't go. Stay and help us."

_What? Did he say _stay_? Fat chance._

Eliot turned back to the window.

"Spencer! I mean it. We can protect you."

_I'm already dead. I just killed myself by not pulling that trigger._ "There's no way you can protect me."

"Yes we can. Listen, we can help each other. You can give us intel on Moreau's organization, and we'll provide you protection from him."

"You can't even protect yourself, old man! I nearly killed you!" More sounds at the door. He had 15 seconds. _Get out now, Spencer!_

"But you didn't. You could have, but chose not to. You told me to send my family away because they're innocent. Imagine how many other innocents you could save if you helped us!"

The door was being battered now. _Five seconds_. He didn't need to worry about innocents, he needed to worry about himself.

"No. I can't." He turned again to the window.

"How many more children will have to die?" Flores asked desperately.

Eliot froze. _Children._ If he ran, he was a dead man. If he stayed ... he was still a dead man, but he might be able to do something to stop Moreau. If he ran now, the blood of all the people, all the _children_, Moreau had yet to kill would be on his hands. On his soul.

The 30 seconds was up, but the guards hadn't broken through yet. Eliot frowned. That door would have taken him 10 seconds by himself, and there were several men out there.

He felt a sudden grip on his arm. Flores had grabbed him. Eliot tried to fight him off, but the old man had an iron grip. He spun Eliot around and the iron grip was on both his upper arms so Eliot had to look into his eyes.

For a split second Eliot saw his own father; that was how he'd held Eliot as a child when he was telling Eliot something important. The seriousness and patience in those eyes was overwhelming. Eliot blinked and Flores was back, but the eyes were the same.

"Spencer, don't go. I know you don't want any more blood on your hands. Help us."

_How could he know that? _How could he know what Eliot had been thinking?

The guards burst through. Eliot frowned. _Forty-five seconds. Pathetic._

"Stand down!" Flores shouted, but they didn't listen. _Good. First rule: protect the principal. Never follow his orders when he's in danger. He could be coerced._

There were seven guards. Two tackled Flores to the ground. _Good again. Protect the principal. _The other five headed for Eliot.

"Don't shoot!" Flores's shout was muffled by the two men who tackled him.

Eliot raised his hands in the air and prepared for the shots. _Do it, please ..._

The shots never came. The guards surrounded him. One shouted, "Face down on the floor now! Hands on your head!"

_Wrong. Eliminate the threat. Just because he's not armed doesn't mean he's not dangerous. _There were only five of them. Eliot could have taken them.

But he didn't want to. Not anymore. Flores was right. He'd made his choice. He followed the shouted orders. His head exploded in pain, and before everything went dark he wondered if he'd made the right one.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Eliot was aware of the searing pain in his head before he even opened his eyes. He heard voices — two soft, one particularly loud — that seemed to be discussing something important. He opened one eye to see if anyone was looking at him. They weren't, so he opened both eyes to get his bearings.

He was in a small room, like the kind he used to have in the barracks when he was in the service. His bed was small with a metal frame, pushed up against a side wall. The door was straight ahead of him as he looked toward his feet. The men were standing in the middle of the room. It sounded as though the two soft voices were trying to calm the loud one.

"General, this is a terrible idea! It's Eliot Spencer! You know what he's done! Look what happened to the Perez family! You think he's just going to turn over a new leaf? How do you know Moreau didn't send him?"

The loud voice was right. _If Moreau was going to send anyone to be a mole, I would be perfect._

"Because he could have killed me, but he didn't." Eliot recognized the quiet firmness of Flores's voice. "I looked right into his eyes as he agonized over whether or not to pull the trigger, and I saw him make the right choice. He could have run away. He had plenty of time to get away before you broke down the door, but he didn't."

_Damn right I had time to get away, you took 45 fucking seconds._

"General," the other soft voice said. "I'm afraid I have to agree. We have no idea if he's really planning to defect. We have to treat him as a prisoner."

Eliot suddenly realized his arm was positioned above his head. He only moved it a fraction of an inch, but the metal of the handcuffs clanked against the metal bedframe. He looked over at the men, who had suddenly stopped talking and turned at the sound.

There were three of them — Flores and two others. The soft-spoken one was older, like Flores. The loud one was young — very young, probably not even 20. A boy.

He thought that now would be the time to say something clever, but his head was pounding too much. He decided to ask for some water instead, but the loud one advanced on him.

"Spencer, what the hell are you — "

"That's enough, Commander," Flores said in a calm, firm voice. "I would like to speak with Mr. Spencer now. Alone."

"Absolutely not!" the loud Commander said. "What if he tries to — "

"The General said enough," the man with the soft voice said. "We'll be waiting right outside, General." He was addressing Flores, but he was looking at Eliot.

As the door closed behind them, the loud one immediately started arguing in what he probably thought was a hushed voice.

Flores smiled at Eliot as he unlocked the handcuff attached to Eliot's wrist.

"You'll have to forgive them," he said, "there's an enemy in their foxhole."

Eliot sat up.

"Would you like some water?"

Eliot nodded and his head spun, so he rested it in his hands until Flores handed him a glass of water. He sipped the water slowly; he was nauseated and had to be careful.

He looked at Flores, who was smiling at him. _I almost killed you. Why are you smiling?_

"Why am I still alive?"

"Because I'm still alive." Still smiling.

Eliot frowned. "Your men should have shot me on sight."

"I told them not to."

"They should have ignored that order. They had no way of knowing that I was no longer a threat."

"You weren't armed, and you were neither fighting nor running."

"That doesn't matter."

"It does here."

Eliot looked away. Someone like him didn't belong here.

"I have no intention of trading a life on the run for one of a prisoner. I'll take my chances with Moreau," he said.

"I think you misunderstand," Flores said. "You are not a prisoner. You can leave whenever you like. The handcuffs were supposedly for my own protection." He rolled his eyes. "They act as if I'm some sort of royalty to be guarded, not a four-star general."

Eliot stood up. "If I'm not a prisoner, then I'll be on my way." His head spun and the nausea nearly overwhelmed him.

Flores grabbed him arm and lowered him back down to sit on the bed. "You received quite a blow to the head. I'd take it easy."

"I'm fine."

"While you're not a prisoner, I would like you to stay until we've discussed your options," Flores said.

Eliot closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. "My options. One: leave here and be killed by Moreau. Two: stay here, give you some secrets, and be killed by Moreau. Not great."

Flores smiled. "It's not quite as dire as that. The way I see it you have three options. One, stay with us indefinitely, provide us with information, and we'll provide you with protection. Two, stay with us for a short time, during which you'll provide us with information and we'll provide you with protection. You can leave whenever you like. Three, we part ways right now. No information, no protection, nothing."

"No offense, but your idea of protection isn't exactly inspiring. I took out six guards in three and a half minutes and could have killed you in one more and been out the door before your guards had even sounded an alarm. And forty-five seconds to get through that door? Pathetic."

"Against you, perhaps. But I've survived dozens of attempts on my life. You're the best Moreau had to offer, and I'm still here."

"That's only because I — " he stopped.

"Because you what? Had a change of heart?" He waited for Eliot to respond, and when he didn't, continued. "Why didn't you kill me, Eliot?" he asked softly.

_Eliot._ He looked into Flores's eyes and saw kindness and patience, and something else. Disappointment? He saw his father again, forever disappointed in the man Eliot had chosen to be, even when that man was a much better person than the one Eliot was now. He blinked and Flores was back, but this time the eyes were different. It wasn't disappointment. It was ... _No ... Pride?_

Flores continued. "Eliot, I could see your indecision when you first pointed the gun at me. You told me you hadn't killed my men. I refused to get on my knees, and you hesitated. I saw the agony in your eyes as you debated. You were trembling. There were tears in your eyes — "

"So what?" Eliot said sharply.

"You disassembled the gun and warned me to save my wife and daughter because they are 'innocents', as you said. You were ready to run until I mentioned children dying."

"So what?" Eliot snarled again.

"Eliot," Flores said softly, "did you leave Moreau because of what he did to the Perez family?"

Eliot's eyes widened in anger. "What _he_ did to the Perez family? Moreau didn't do anything. That's not what he does. He orders from on high and passes judgment on those who can't defend themselves."

"You are correct about that. What Moreau's _men_ did to them, then."

Eliot shook his head in astonishment. He didn't know. _How can he not know?_

"No. What _I_ did to them." His voice broke on "I". It was the first time he'd said it aloud.

"You?" Flores asked. He seemed surprised, but only mildly. "It didn't look like your work."

"That's because I disobeyed orders this time."

Flores nodded slowly. "That explains why you were sent to kill me." He smiled at the look Eliot gave him. "You think we didn't know that I was used as a punishment? The attempts were, as you so eloquently said earlier, pathetic." He stopped smiling. "What orders did you disobey?"

Eliot started to shake again and looked at his hands. He tried to form words, but all that came out was "Maroni."

Flores breathed in sharply. "The children?"

Eliot nodded. He was still looking at his hands. He couldn't tell him the real reason he'd disobeyed the orders. That Chapman had —

The nausea finally rose to the top. Flores, apparently anticipating this, held a trashcan while Eliot retched.

"Perhaps you should lay down. Movements of the head make the nausea worse," Flores said.

Eliot leaned back against the wall again and closed his eyes. _It's not the concussion ..._

"So ... you disobeyed orders ..." Flores said, almost to himself. "They weren't ..." He paused and looked at Eliot. "You were ... merciful."

Eliot's eyes snapped open to look at Flores. "Merciful?" he snarled. "You have a funny idea of mercy."

"We both know full well that there are worse things than death, Eliot," Flores said. "In those cases, yes, death itself is merciful."

"That doesn't change anything," Eliot said quietly.

"Nor should it. You have a lot of blood on your hands, Eliot Spencer. You will never be clean of that."

Flores stood. Eliot looked up at him as he moved to leave. Their eyes met.

"But that doesn't mean you aren't capable of doing good." He smiled softly. "Get some rest. Tomorrow you can make your decision." He left, closing the door behind him.

_Yes ... it was pride._

.

.

.

Eliot was jerked back to the present by the squeal of the brakes. They had landed in San Lorenzo.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Eliot was the last off the plane. Nate had gone off to talk to the Italian, who was waiting for him with something. _Probably our passports._

Hardison and Parker were bickering about something, and Sophie was watching Nate. Eliot took the time to walk farther out on the tarmac and watch the sunset. He smiled. San Lorenzo always did have very distinctive sunsets. Memories started to flood back, but before they could take hold, he heard a voice behind him.

"Eliot?"

Even though she had given him warning that she was there, he still flinched when Sophie touched his arm. _Damn. _He really needed to stop doing that, or they were going to notice that something was wrong.

"What's wrong?" Jesus, he had no damned privacy with these people. They just read his thoughts as though he'd spoken them aloud.

"I just ... haven't been here in a long time," he said, still looking at the sunset. No point in lying to her, she'd figure it out anyway.

"I know, but it's more than that. You haven't been the same since Moreau left for San Lorenzo last week. You're obviously exhausted, your temper has been much shorter ... "

His breathing grew more rapid as his heart pounded. _She can't ever know ..._

She rubbed his arm. "It wasn't your fault that he got away. Neither was what happened to the General. But we're going to fix it. That's why we're here. Nate has a plan, as always." She smiled.

_Why does everyone have so much fucking trust in Nate's god-damned plans?_ It was because of Nate's brilliant plan that Eliot had had to —

He must have looked upset or worried or something — he never could hide anything from the grifter — because she said, "You don't have to tell us about your past, Eliot, but if you ever need someone to listen, I hope you know that you can talk to me."

_I'd never burden you with that._ He put on a smile for her. "Thanks, Soph," he rasped. His voice was filled with more emotion than he'd wanted to show. She smiled in understanding and squeezed his arm, just as Nate called them all over and said,

"All right, guys. Let's go steal a country."

.

.

.

When they finally got to the hotel, Eliot couldn't get out of the car fast enough. Sophie giving him significant looks. Sophie giving Nate significant looks. Nate trying to decipher said looks. Their incredibly obvious attempt at a silent conversation clearly concerning him. And Parker and Hardison were huddled together, trying to "come up with an idea" for something. All he knew was that they kept saying the word "pretzels" and it was driving him crazy.

As they walked down the hall to their rooms, Eliot snapped, "I swear to God, Parker, if you say 'pretzels' one more time ... "

Hardison and Parker exchanged a look — _How many silent conversations am I being left out of, and why?_ — and then Parker turned and said, "Pretzelspretzelspretzelspretzelspretzels! Come on, it's kind of a funny word, Eliot!" She smiled. "Besides, I've been in the mood for pretzels lately."

This made Hardison smile for some reason. He gave Hardison a _Really?-They're-just-fucking-pretzels_ look, and Hardison stopped smiling and looked away.

_Great. _The four members of his team were either annoying him, avoiding him, trying to get him to talk about his problems, or trying to get him to talk about his feelings. Only one of those was normal. What in the hell was going on with them?

Then he realized: _It's not the team, it's me._ He was the reason they were acting weird, and in all cases it was because he had done or said something unusual and they were worried, or hurt, or both. And it was all because of what had happened in the warehouse.

He couldn't do this anymore. He'd done something he'd promised himself he'd never do again, and he did it for them. But he'd never be able to move on. It changed the way he looked at them, talked to them, reacted to them. It would never be the same.

_This is my last job._ It was fitting, too. Finishing Moreau, finishing with the team. San Lorenzo had always been a place for endings. Leaving Moreau, leaving the Flores family, leaving Pete — he winced and pushed those memories out of his mind — and now the team. He was destined to be alone.

He was roused from his thoughts by Parker giggling — damn, he would miss her laugh — when he realized that, though they had gathered in Nate's room, they weren't doing anything. Parker and Hardison were talking together again. They had been acting really weird lately. If he didn't know better, he'd think they had finally kissed, but he knew Hardison was taking it way too slow for that. Nate and Sophie had apparently just finished a quiet conversation in the corner.

Nate came over and said, "Okay, we're going to meet back here at eight tomorrow for breakfast. In the meantime, get some rest."

"What's going on? Why aren't we starting now?" Eliot asked. _The sooner we get started, the sooner this will be over._ He realized with a pang that that also meant the sooner he'd leave the team, but he'd think about that later.

"Eliot, we just got off a nine-hour flight, and frankly, I'm exhausted. So let's meet back here tomorrow and then we'll get to planning."

_You? Sleeping? In the middle of a job?_ Eliot looked at Sophie, and then he understood. This was the topic of both their silent conversation in the car and their quiet conversation in the corner. A plot to get him to sleep. He rolled his eyes, pointedly, at them.

"I'm not tired at all," Parker chirped. "I think I'm gonna go explore the city."

"Don't go far, and keep a low profile," Nate said. "And no stealing, Parker. We don't want any unwanted attention."

She scoffed. "I can do all of those things at the same time. It's not like I'll get caught."

"Mama, I'm pretty sure he's more worried about people noticing things going missing than you getting caught," Hardison said to her. "I'll go with her, Nate, unless you need me."

"No, go. Come back ready to work. I need everyone at their best for this one." He looked at Eliot.

Eliot rolled his eyes again, said, "Fine. See you later," and left, slamming the door behind him.

His room was right down the hall from Nate's. He looked longingly at the bed — he was exhausted. But his nightmares were loud, and he didn't want them to hear. He opened the doors to the balcony that overlooked the city.

It was a beautiful night in San Lorenzo. Eliot shook his head. The nights were always beautiful. It was the memories that were ugly.

.

.

.

Eliot spent the night in the tiny room with eyes closed, head pounding, stomach churning, mind whirling. He didn't dare sleep. The loud Commander was standing guard outside his door. He knew this because everything the man did was loud: coughing, moving, shifting, standing, _breathing_. How in the world someone could breathe so loudly was beyond Eliot.

He couldn't have slept even if he tried. He was exhausted, but when he closed his eyes, he saw them all, heard them, felt them. So he occupied himself with deciding what he should do. Flores had given him three options.

One: stay and give them information in return for protection. If the loud Commander was any indication of the rest of Flores's men, Eliot would probably be safer turning himself in to Moreau right now. And why would he give them information for nothing?

Two: pretty much the same as option one, but apparently less permanent. He thought Flores was just being kind when he gave him three options instead of two.

Three: leave now. He could easily take the loud Commander, but he wasn't sure how many others he'd run into on his way out. Hell, he didn't even know where he was — there was no window in the small room. He might not even be in San Lorenzo anymore. He had no way of knowing.

Flores had promised him he could leave if he wanted. Maybe he was serious. That would be the best option: leave now before any further damage was done, before he'd lost too much time getting out of the country — except that he had nothing: no passport, no papers, no money, nothing. He left Moreau with the clothes on his back, and he couldn't return to his condo; they'd surely have tossed the place by now. He could make it work, but his chances were slim.

_My chances were slim the minute I didn't fire a bullet into the man's brain_. He just had to resign himself to the fact that he didn't have long to live, no matter what he chose. It didn't matter much who finished him.

_You have a lot of blood on your hands, Eliot Spencer. But that doesn't mean you aren't capable of doing good. _The words kept coming back. Doing good? He wasn't capable of anything but death and destruction. He could never hope to be the man Flores described.

_Doing good_ ... He didn't even remember what that looked like, or felt like. He barely remembered, what seemed like an eternity ago, joining the service and fighting for God and country, for the greater good. _Good._ The opposite of evil. _The opposite of me._

What good could he do? Give them information? About what, Moreau's organization? Hell, he didn't even know everything that went on. Moreau kept it that way, to keep people from doing exactly what Eliot was being asked to do.

But he did know things: the way Moreau worked, the clients he moved money for, the people he used. But surely Flores knew all of that already? What could Eliot offer them?

The door opened and Flores walked in. "Good morning," he said cheerfully. He had a plate full of food. The smell nearly made Eliot vomit.

"You should eat something. My wife made this, bacon and eggs, and homemade bread." When Eliot refused to look at him or the food, Flores said, "You must be starving. You threw up everything in your stomach last night. "

"M'not hungry."

"Now you're acting like my daughter. She's sixteen. Do you want me to tell my men that the great Eliot Spencer refuses to eat, just like a teenage girl?"

Eliot rolled his eyes. _It's gonna take more than that to get me to eat something that I didn't see prepared, old man. _As if reading his thoughts, Flores shrugged and started eating. "You know, they're betting you'll leave. All of them. Not one of them thinks you'll help us. Except for me."

Eliot looked at the bread. He _did _need to eat, and it was probably the only thing on the plate he might be able to keep down. Flores offered him some and he took it, nibbling on it until he was sure his stomach could take it.

"So," Flores started. "You spent all night agonizing. Have you made a decision?"

Eliot chewed silently. He didn't have an answer.

"I'd like you to come with me to our meeting. Every morning my commanders and I meet to discuss strategy. You don't have to say or do anything. Just listen. If you want to leave after that, I won't stop you. They all think you'll leave, but I think they're wrong. I think you've been considering my offer, and I think you'll help us. And not because you want any protection."

Eliot frowned. "And what makes you think I'll help you for nothing in return?"

Flores smiled. "Help me prove them wrong."

"You didn't answer my question."

"And you didn't answer mine. Have you made a decision?"

"No. What makes you think I'll help you for nothing?"

"Just a hunch, I suppose," Flores smiled.

The door opened and the loud Commander entered. "General, we're gathering now. Do you need anything?" Eliot flinched — his head pounded at every word. The loud Commander glared at him, and Eliot knew he was talking loudly on purpose.

"No, I'm on my way." Flores got up to leave. He turned to Eliot and said, "What was the name of William Perez's 10-year-old daughter?"

"Anna," Eliot said, without thinking. _How could he forget?_

"They're betting you won't come," Flores said again. "They think you'll leave without helping us. They think you don't care about anyone but Eliot Spencer."

Eliot looked into those kind eyes, and he saw something he hadn't seen before. _Hope._

"Help me prove them wrong."

.

.

.

Eliot sat next to Flores at the head of a long table. There were about a dozen men gathered around it, including the loud Commander and the soft-spoken man from last night, and all eyes were on him.

"You don't have to talk, just listen," Flores whispered to him. "And if you want to ingratiate yourself to them, you should address me as General Flores or General."

For the first time in a long time, Eliot was frightened.

Flores stood and spoke. "Good morning, gentlemen. I know it's been a long night for us all, but I'd like to hear progress reports. Colonel Escobar?"

The soft-spoken man from last night — Colonel Escobar, apparently — addressed the table. "Yes, sir. The six men injured last night are doing well, but as you ordered, three will stay in the hospital for the rest of the week. They aren't too happy about having to pretend their injuries are greater than they are."

Eliot frowned. _What's the point of that?_

"They'll live," Flores said dryly. "It makes the story more believable. What about the public? How did they respond to the story we gave them?"

"Well, sir," another man spoke up, one Eliot had never seen before. "They seem to be buying the story. We know word's gotten back to Moreau, but he doesn't seem to be buying it — not yet anyway. Men have searched Spencer's condo to ensure he's not hiding out there, and there are guards at every border checkpoint out of the country."

_I should have left last night. I could have been out of the country before they even knew I was gone._

"Are they looking for Spencer?" Flores asked.

"Actually, no," the man said. "They seem to be tightening security so the public won't leave. Moreau seems to have expected Spencer to succeed, so he's panicking. Apparently," the man chuckled, "he thinks that without the Rottweiler, he might not be able to keep people in line anymore."

"Interesting," Flores said. "Have they asked to see a body yet?"

_Body? What body?_

"Yes, and we're going to have to give a reason why we can't provide one. Frankly, if we can't give them something, they're going to start to think we're lying."

_Lying? _"Keep working on it. I want three options by this evening."

"Why don't we just give them Spencer and be done with it?" the loud Commander asked, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

"I've given plenty of reasons for why that is _not_ a valid option, Commander, so I'd appreciate it if we could let the topic drop," Flores said firmly.

Eliot blinked. "Did you announce that I'm dead?"

Flores smiled. "Of course. We certainly weren't going to tell the truth, and it's to the benefit of the people that they think Moreau is handicapped." He beamed at Eliot, as though he was the kid at the back of the class who never raised his hand, but had just answered the teacher's most difficult question. He turned to the room again. "Do we know who Moreau will tap for Head of Security?"

The loud Commander started, "We have a few candidates, but we're not certain —"

"It's Chapman," Eliot said.

The room fell silent and all eyes turned to him. "You're sure?" Flores asked him.

"Yes."

"How do you know?" the loud Commander asked.

Eliot's eyes dropped to look at his hands. They were shaking. "Trust me, I know."

"_Trust you?_" the loud Commander exclaimed. "You want us to _trust_ you? You injure six of our men, enter the General's bedroom with a gun, nearly kill him, and you want us to _trust _you? Excuse me if that doesn't fill me with confidence." He turned to Flores. "General, I think that this entire situation is ludicrous. Eliot Spencer tries to kill you, and at the last minute he just happens to have a change of heart? Does no one think that sounds suspicious? And less than twelve hours later he's sitting here, in our strategy meeting, listening to how we're dealing with the situation! We know what he's done, why are we believing him? He killed the Perez family!"

"But not according to Moreau's orders. We thought it was suspicious from the beginning, and what he's told us has confirmed —"

"I think the entire handling of this situation is irresponsible," the loud Commander interrupted. "How many people —"

"That's an awfully disrespectful way to address a general," Eliot said quietly, but loudly enough for everyone to hear. The room fell deadly silent, and for a second no one breathed. The loud Commander stood mouth agape.

Eliot turned to Flores. "You were saying, sir?"

Even Flores was speechless for a moment. He gave Eliot a look of surprised amusement before continuing, "Um, yes, as I was saying, Commander, we were suspicious from the start when we found the Perez family. It did not fit Moreau's usual pattern."

"You mean Spencer's usual pattern," the Commander countered, subdued but not beaten. "And no, it didn't fit the pattern. Moreau has never targeted an entire family before. The _children_ were killed!"

"And Spencer has told us that Moreau had ordered something much worse — the same treatment Maroni received."

The loud Commander was momentarily speechless. "Spencer told you that — and you believe him? How do you know this isn't a ruse —"

"Why would I lie about something like that?" Eliot asked.

"I don't know, you tell us," the Commander replied. "Why would you kill six children in cold blood?"

Eliot didn't want this. He hadn't intended to speak, but the Commander's disrespect toward General Flores had irritated him. Flores was in charge, who did this uppity kid think he was? And now he was interrogating Eliot.

"I had to," he said quietly.

"You _what?!_ Did you say that you _had_ to kill six children? What could possibly justify that?"

"As I said, Commander," General Flores said, "Moreau had ordered Spencer to perform the same acts as on Maroni, and so Spencer decided to —"

"That's not true," Eliot said. The room fell silent again, but he couldn't raise his eyes. He continued to stare at his hands — he couldn't steady them. _This is why you're here — to help them. Prove them wrong._ They needed to know who the true monster was in this story, and for once it wasn't Moreau. "That wasn't why I disobeyed the orders. It was ... something worse."

The soft-spoken Colonel Escobar asked, "What could possibly be worse than the Maroni treatment?"

Silence.

_They're waiting for you to answer. _The bile began to rise in his throat. He couldn't even think about it without vomiting. But he had to tell them. They had to know.

"Eliot," Flores said quietly. "What did Moreau order?"

Eliot realized his grip on the table was so tight his knuckles were white. The table itself was starting to shake.

"It wasn't Moreau ... Chapman ..." he choked out. "He was going to ... the girls ... he —" he gulped, pulse racing, breath shallow. "He — he _wanted_ them."

There was a collective gasp around the table as Eliot's words sunk in. For a second, no one spoke. Then the silence was broken by a loud bang.

Eliot turned. The loud Commander had hit the table with his fist. Except he wasn't loud and arrogant anymore. He was standing, but his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table was familiar to Eliot, and his eyes — for the first time, Eliot looked into the boy's eyes. His face was young — he couldn't be more than 20 — but his eyes were old. They were filled with pain. Eliot wondered what — he knew who — could have happened to cause someone so young to suffer like that. He looked around the room to find everyone's concerned eyes on the Commander. Colonel Escobar put his hand on the boy's shoulder and said gently, "Pete ... let's go for a walk ..."

"No," the boy rasped. "I want to hear the rest." He shrugged off the man's hand and looked Eliot in the eyes. Eliot saw the pain, but it was different from his own. He couldn't pinpoint it. "Chapman?"

Eliot nodded, looking the boy, loud Commander Pete, in the eyes. He couldn't look away.

"He's going to be Moreau's new Head of Security ... General ..." Pete looked to the General with pleading eyes.

"Yes," the General said quietly. "Yes ..." He was lost in thought for what seemed like an eternity, then said abrubtly, "You're all dismissed. We'll meet again this afternoon."

Everyone got up to leave except Eliot and the General. Eliot kept his eyes on Pete until he left the room.

He turned to the General. "What … ?" He couldn't even form the question.

"That, Eliot, is something Pete will have to tell you himself when the time is right."

Eliot nodded. It wasn't the General's story to tell. But he knew one thing for sure. Commander Pete had just made up his mind for him. He was staying.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Eliot woke suddenly to the sound of giggling. Wait, woke? _Was I asleep?_ He was sitting in the chair on the balcony of his hotel room in San Lorenzo. Memories of Pete were not exactly his idea of a good night's sleep, but they sure beat the hell out of waking up screaming in terror.

He wasn't happy at the thought of falling asleep out in the open on the balcony, though. It was incredibly insecure, and if Moreau found out they were here …

He heard the giggling again, closer this time — on the next balcony over. It was a very distinctive giggling.

"Wow, that was great!" Parker said. "I had no idea that I could have so much fun without stealing something!" She was slightly out of breath.

Then Hardison spoke, gasping for air. "Hehe, I told you. But damn, woman, I'm out of shape, you shoulda slowed down!"

Eliot's eyes widened in horror. _Christ … Is "pretzels" … their code work for sex?_

"Well you should have stayed still, silly! I told you that if you kept wiggling we'd set off the motion sensors!"

"Wiggling?! Of course I was wiggling, what the hell did you expect?"

_Motion sensors?! Parker's a fucking exhibitionist!_ He tried in vain to push the images from his mind, but didn't succeed until he heard his own name come up in conversation.

"… Eliot?"

_Shit!_ Had they seen him? The sky was starting to lighten and Parker had eyes like a cat. He silently slid down to the floor of the balcony. The vertical slats of the railing were wide enough that they couldn't see him.

"What about him?" Hardison asked, sounding as though the change in conversation had just burst his bubble.

"Have you noticed he's been acting weird lately?"

"Not particularly, no …" Hardison mumbled. He sounded as though this was the last conversation he wanted to be having.

"Sophie and Nate said he looks really tired. And I talked to him on the plane, and I scared him! Like, he made this weird squeaking noise, like this —" She made the noise, and Hardison snorted. "Right? I've only ever scared him once, when he was the Fiddle, so I know something's wrong. He said he was worried about his friend the General."

Hardison must have reacted, because she followed up with, "He says it's not your fault, and that he didn't mean to yell at you. He was just scared for his friend."

"He's just saying that," Hardison said bitterly. "He has no idea if it's my fault because he has no idea what's involved with securing a phone call. He just knows it's my job and I fucked it up."

"But you didn't. You said that Manticore is practically impossible to hack. You couldn't have —"

"Eliot doesn't understand any of that, Parker. He just knows that I didn't do my job and now his friend's in jail. And it doesn't matter how much he says it's not my fault. I saw the look on his face. He blames me."

Eliot put his head in his hands. He should've talked to Hardison on the plane.

"Sophie says that Eliot only ever blames one person when things go wrong — himself," Parker said.

_Dammit, Sophie, stop telling Parker things like that!_

"Whatever," Hardison mumbled.

"She also said that you're having trouble forgiving him," Parker said.

"Dammit, Sophie needs to stop talking about people behind their backs!" Eliot almost smiled at Hardison's outburst — almost. "She doesn't know what the fuck she's talking about!"

"Yes she does," Parker said defensively. "She reads people for a living. And even I know that you're still mad at him for what happened in the pool."

Eliot's stomach did a somersault. _Fuck. _He'd never gotten a chance, what with the bomb and pretending to kill Atherton, to talk with Hardison about that. And since the warehouse, he'd been so focused on himself … A pain sliced through his heart. How could he have been so selfish? He'd let his best friend nearly drown at the bottom of a pool, and he hadn't even explained his reasoning.

"Let it go, okay?" Hardison snapped.

"Alec," Parker said softly. "You know Eliot would never let anything happen to any of us, right?"

Hardison didn't say anything — and that said everything.

Eliot's heart broke. Hardison no longer trusted him. He'd betrayed his best friend. And that, in his eyes, was the worst sin he could have committed. He was shaking, and he felt like he was going to vomit.

"Sophie said you should talk to him," Parker said quietly.

"Will you shut up about what Sophie says?!" Eliot winced at hearing his best friend talk that way to the girl he loved. He'd never heard Hardison snap at Parker like that. _Because of me._

Parker must have reacted in some way, because Hardison backtracked immediately. "I'm sorry, Parker," he said gently. "I'm not mad at you. I just — I don't know what to do."

"Talk to him!" Parker urged. "It'll make you feel better."

"Yeah, 'cause he's been so damned talkative lately. Hell, we've barely seen him since we got back from D.C., and when we do see him, it's like he's just going through the motions. He hasn't teased me about computers or made comments about my orange soda. He hasn't even said, 'Dammit, Hardison'." Hardison's voice broke.

_Dammit, Hardison,_ Eliot thought. There were tears in his eyes. He'd been so focused on hiding his relapse from the team, hiding the fact that he was still "that man", that he hadn't noticed the man he was turning into. It was a good thing he was leaving; the team didn't deserve this. But he was going to make it right before he left.

"It's like Moreau stole my best friend and replaced him with a robot," Hardison continued.

A lump formed in Eliot's throat. _You're not wrong, Hardison._

"I just want _our_ Eliot back …"

Eliot couldn't take it anymore. As quietly as possible, he crawled back into his room and locked himself in the bathroom. He turned the shower on as hot as it would go, letting the water burn his skin. He didn't know what was worse, thinking about Pete or thinking about Hardison. This was why he had to leave. He couldn't just forget what he'd done. He could no longer look his team in the eyes. He had never hated himself more than he did now, because he'd let it happen again.

The memories came to him in flashes: Pete laughing … Maria looking radiant in her wedding dress … the look on the General's face when Eliot told him he was leaving, that he had no choice … He realized with a pang he hadn't seen any of them in nearly 10 years. The pang grew sharper as he thought about how long it would be before he saw his team again. Ten years? Never? He'd promised himself last time he wouldn't let anyone in again. When he left San Lorenzo, he'd locked his heart away, deep, deep down in his chest. He'd built up walls, kept his distance. He'd worked alone so he'd never have to worry about anyone getting too close.

Until that bastard Dubenich had made him an offer he couldn't refuse. One night, $300K, and all he had to do was work with a couple of other thieves and Nathan Ford? Easiest money he'd ever make. One show only, no encores.

But then the asshole had tried to kill them, and Eliot had gotten sucked into Nate's Robin Hood fantasy. He had finally understood what Juan meant when he'd said "that doesn't mean you can't do good." He'd tried to keep them at arm's length, to build the walls higher, bury his heart deeper, to not let them in.

But they were thieves. They didn't need him to let them in. They found their own ways in. They'd plotted, and hacked, and grifted their way in; they'd scaled the walls and picked the locks. He hadn't given his heart away this time — they'd stolen it. And the worst part was, he'd enjoyed every damned minute of it.

_They can keep it,_ he thought, turning off the water. He didn't want it anymore. Things would be easier without it.

He was done.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"… Maybe he's still sleep —"

As Eliot walked in, Sophie stopped talking and flashed her brightest smile. "Good morning. Did you get some rest?"

Eliot responded with a fake smile of his own. "Actually, I did, thanks." He would at least pretend things were normal. He owed them that much.

It was obvious by the looks on the team's faces that they weren't buying it. Whatever they had been hoping to see in him — _A good night's rest? Happiness? _— they were all clearly disappointed, with the exception of Hardison, who refused to even look at him. Eliot's heart twinged.

"Hardison, one of these days you're going to have to teach me how to set the alarm on my phone. I thought I set it for eight AM, but apparently not…" Eliot cringed. What the hell was he doing? _Certainly not helping._

Hardison didn't even look up from his screen. "Yeah, sure."

Eliot sighed._ Just shut up and do your damned job, Spencer._

Nate started talking and walked them through the points of his plan. It wasn't bad, actually. Steal the election right out from under Moreau. He just hoped Nate had at least the whole alphabet of back-up plans.

He and Parker were supposed to go to the Tombs, where the General was being held, and break him out. As Eliot was showing Parker the blueprints, he realized that if they succeeded, Juan would now tell everyone Eliot had saved his life three times, instead of just two.

.

.

.

As Eliot entered the room for the daily morning meeting, he knew right away that something was wrong. He'd only been with Flores's freedom fighters for a little over a month, but he had been in enough of these meetings to know when there was bad news. This time it concerned him.

"What's happened?" he asked as all eyes in the room watched him sit down.

The General and Colonel Escobar exchanged a look.

"What?" Eliot said again.

The General sighed and said, "Moreau knows you're alive."

_Fuck._ He'd been expecting this for weeks, but it still made his heart leap into his throat when he heard the news.

"He knows I'm here?" he asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

"Yes," Escobar said. "It seems he may have known for a while now, but we just learned about it today."

Eliot tried to stay calm. "Do we know how he found out?"

"We have some theories," the General said hesitantly. "None of them good."

"Let me guess — a mole?"

"Exactly," the General said.

Eliot nodded. That had been his theory for a few weeks now. "That would make sense. Over the past couple of weeks, all of our recons and strikes have been intercepted, almost as if they were expected. Plus, when I was with Moreau, I remember him mentioning information he'd received from inside your organization."

Escobar's eyes darkened. "Really? Why didn't you say anything before?"

"Because I wanted to make sure I was right before I got anyone worried."

"Or maybe because it's you."

Eliot looked across the table. Loud Commander Pete Fucking Rodriguez. Even though Rodriguez had been the reason Eliot decided to stay, he had been a pain in Eliot's ass the entire time. He didn't trust anything Eliot had to say, and always had some reason for why Eliot was the bad guy. Eliot understood some animosity; none of the men had exactly warmed up to him since he'd arrived, but they all at least acknowledged that he'd helped them on several occasions by providing pertinent information. Not Rodriguez. Everything Eliot said was a chance for him to express his displeasure at Eliot's very presence.

"Seriously?" Eliot asked. "Think about that for a second, Rodriguez. If I was the mole, why the hell would I suggest that there might be a mole?"

"I dunno, to divert suspicion?"

Eliot rolled his eyes. "Right. And the mole I just referred to as being in the organization before I got here?"

"A lie," Rodriguez said.

"Uh-huh. So let me get this straight." Eliot let the sarcasm drip from his voice. "Moreau wants me to be a mole, so he sends me to kill the General, on the off-chance that I maybe get through, even though no one has before. He tells me to pretend to have a change of heart, and try to get accepted into your ranks, on the assumption that the General, with a gun pointed to his head, will believe Moreau's Head of Security when he says that he wants to defect. As soon as I get here, he tells me to start giving away information in an obvious way. Then, more than a month later, Moreau lets it leak that he knows that I wasn't killed in the attempt, in order to have me suggest that there might be a mole, so that no one will suggest that I'm the mole that I brought up in the first place? You realize how ludicrous that sounds, don't you?"

"It's not any more ludicrous than you asking us to believe that you had a change of heart about killing kids, but decided to kill the kids anyway to keep them from being killed."

"That's not —" Eliot breathed. Rodriguez knew which knives to twist, and it hurt every time. "Go to hell, Rodriguez. You're a fucking moron."

"Fuck you, Spencer —"

"That's enough," the General commanded. Eliot could tell that the he was getting tired of moderating the very public arguments between him and Rodriguez. "Given what's happened over the past few weeks, it seems highly likely that there is a mole. We need to be careful what information gets out. Orders and missions don't leave this room until the last possible minute to pull everything together."

"Unless the mole is someone in this room," Rodriguez mumbled.

The entire room rolled their eyes except Eliot. "I agree with Rodriguez," he said.

Silence. Then the room burst into laughter.

"Well don't let this happen too often, boys," Escobar chuckled. "Otherwise we might start to think the apocalypse is nigh."

"I'm serious," Eliot said. "Moreau wouldn't waste his resources on a mole unless he was sure the person could get access to the highest level of the organization."

"Exactly, and that's why —" Rodriguez started, but the General interrupted.

"Commander, that is enough."

"Actually, sir," Eliot said, "I'd like to hear what he has to say, if that's alright."

The General arched his eyebrows. "Very well. Continue, Commander Rodriguez."

Rodriguez flushed beet red. He clearly didn't like the idea that Eliot might be helping him out. "Well … I was going to suggest that we should start investigating. Give people false information, and if the lies get out, we know who the mole is."

"At the risk of bringing on the apocalypse … Rodriguez is right." The room chuckled, and Eliot wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a sparkle of something in Rodriguez's eyes, which were usually haunted and pained. After over a month, he still hadn't been able to find out what had happened in the man's past, but if agreeing with him on occasion might bring a little bit of light back to those eyes, he thought it was worth it — no one deserved that kind of pain. _Especially when he is, in fact, right._

"In fact, I think we need several separate investigations," Eliot continued. "General, you should choose a few people you trust most to conduct independent investigations. If they come up with the same name, then that's the man. If one of them comes up with a different one, he's your man trying to divert suspicion." His eyes met Rodriguez's — there was that sparkle again.

"Agreed," the General said. "You're all dismissed. I apparently have some thinking to do."

As Eliot got up from the table, he winked at Rodriguez. He could have sworn he saw, for the first time, a shadow of a smile on the man's face.

.

.

.

Eliot hadn't been inside the General's mansion since That Night, but he needed to see the General — now.

He'd figured out who the mole was.

Rodriguez had been right. It _had_ been someone in that room.

He knocked on the front door, only to be stopped by the same guards he'd seen That Night.

"I need to see him, it's important," he said, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

One left to find the General, while the other three remained with Eliot. Eliot thought about apologizing for what he'd done That Night, but wasn't sure how that type of apology would sound. "Hey, sorry I knocked you guys out that night I tried to kill the General. Be glad I didn't kill you. No hard feelings?"

Luckily, the fourth guard returned with the General, who didn't like being awakened at three in the morning, again, by Eliot Spencer trying to get into his house.

"What's going on? Eliot, is everything alright?"

"I need to talk with you. Now."

.

.

.

"General, with all due respect, that is a terrible idea." Eliot couldn't believe what he was saying. "If we out him in front of the commanders, he may panic, and there's no telling what he might do."

"I am never safer than when I am surrounded by those men," the General said. "And I want him to explain to us all what he did, and why," he added darkly.

The pain and betrayal in the General's eyes was evident. Eliot hated seeing it; those eyes had always been so kind, so hopeful, so ... trusting. And Eliot couldn't help but feel responsible.

He had saved the worst part for last, but that hadn't made it any easier, to say or to hear.

"Sir ..." he had said. "He was with your son when he died, wasn't he?"

Even after a year, the grief of losing his only son was still fresh. "Yes," the General had said, voice unsteady. "Berto ... he was killed in a firefight …"

"No he wasn't," Eliot had said. It hurt him to say it. "I — I was there. They retreated. I watched them. I heard later that your son had been killed. I had always wondered, but Moreau ... well, he wasn't forthcoming about what had happened."

That was a vast understatement. When Eliot had asked Moreau, the man had smiled and purred, "Eliot, my friend, you didn't think you were the only weapon in my arsenal, did you? You're just the one I tell people about."

The General had protested. "Are you saying that he ... impossible! He would never! Berto ... he ..." His eyes had filled with tears, and Eliot's heart broke.

"Juan ... I'm so sorry." It had been the first time Eliot had used the General's first name, but the man was too distraught to notice.

And now he was about to do something reckless. "Sir," Eliot said desperately. "I am begging you to please wait. Don't do anything you might regret."

"I won't regret this, I assure you," the General said darkly. Eliot was actually frightened. He had never seen this side of the General before; he finally understood why Moreau saw him as such a threat. "Get them all out of bed. I want to do this now."

.

.

.

The commanders were understandably confused and worried at being awoken at four in the morning. The mole looked at Eliot, and his eyes flashed. He obviously knew what this was about.

"Gentlemen, thank you for coming at such an early hour," the General began. Unfortunately, I'm afraid it's not for a happy reason. We have found the mole."

He looked at Eliot expectantly.

_Are you serious?_ He was the last man that should be exposing this person. No one in the room truly trusted him.

But he would do anything for Juan. So he took a deep breath and spoke. "A month ago the General asked me to start looking into who the mole might be. I started to feed you all subtle pieces of wrong information. I followed a hunch, and tonight I figured out who it was." He looked at the man. There was a collective intake of breath.

Escobar looked enraged and scandalized.

_He's good,_ Eliot thought. He had to be, to have hidden in plain sight for so long.

"What?! Absolutely not! Juan, surely you don't believe —"

"Eliot has provided me with a mountain of evidence, starting with the fact that only you were told that the mission would take place tonight. And sure enough, Moreau's men were waiting for a recon team that never came. How do you explain that?"

"This is insane! The three of us were in that meeting, Juan. How do you know it wasn't Spencer?"

"Because it was my idea to feed you the wrong information." Eliot stood with arms crossed, at the General's side. Escobar was not going to get away with this.

"Eliot also informed me ..." The General lost his voice.

Eliot would have to do it. _I'm so sorry, Juan._ "Escobar, you were with Roberto Flores when he died, weren't you?"

The room fell deadly silent. The eyes of every commander were wide with shock and anticipation.

Escobar started to falter. "Y-yes ... I was. He was killed in a firefight."

"Except that he wasn't, Escobar. I was there. I saw you retreat, together, and you were both alive. When I heard later that he'd been killed, I found it odd. I asked Moreau about it, but he was cryptic." Eliot paused. He hadn't gone into detail with Juan, but he needed to now, to draw Escobar out. "He said, and I quote, 'You didn't think you were the only weapon in my arsenal, did you? You're just the one I tell people about.'"

Juan looked stricken. Eliot wanted to hit — no, he wanted to kill Escobar.

Escobar laughed nervously. "Are you kidding me? Berto was my godson! I loved him like my own child!"

Eliot kept pushing. _For Juan._ "But he figured it out, didn't he? He was smart and resourceful. He figured out that you were feeding Moreau information. I remember that firefight. Moreau sent us there on intel from one of his secret contacts. That was you, wasn't it? Let me guess — after you retreated, Roberto accused you of feeding information to Moreau. You tried to deny it, but he wouldn't have any of it. So to preserve your cover, you killed him, and then came home and cried over his body like he was your own child."

He knew how deep he was cutting Juan — he didn't need to hear the details of his son's death, and certainly not in the brusque tone Eliot was using right now. It hurt Eliot to see Juan's reaction, but he had to do it. Not just for Juan, but for Roberto Flores. He had been a truly good man, like his father. His family deserved to know the truth.

"Juan, you can't seriously believe this. We grew up together. I was Berto's godfather. I was there when Maria was born! I was best man at your wedding, for Christ's sake! And Eliot Spencer has been here a few months and now all of a sudden you believe him over me?"

"Explain yourself, then," Pete Rodriguez said.

_Thank God. Someone else believes me._

"Juan." Escobar stood, ignoring Rodriguez's comment. "I would never —"

"Then explain yourself," Eliot growled. "We're all ears."

Eliot saw it in Escobar's eyes the second before he did it, but he wasn't fast enough.

Escobar drew his gun and grabbed the General. He held the gun to his friend's head and said, "Back off, Spencer, or he's dead."

The General was in shock — the twin blows of hearing his best friend admit his betrayal and learning the details of his son's death were too much — he couldn't fight, he just stood there.

The entire room drew their guns and pointed them at Escobar, except for Eliot. He hadn't carried a gun since That Night. He had always disliked guns, but it was only recently that he had refused to carry one.

He did, however, carry knives. About half a dozen, hidden on his person: one in each boot, two in the holster he had taken to wearing recently, and a couple others when he could figure out where to put them. He had expected the shit to hit the fan tonight, so he'd taken an extra one and stuck it up his sleeve before he called in the commanders.

Having a dozen guns pointed at him seemed to jar the General back into reality. "Hold your fire!" he ordered.

"Ignore that order," Eliot said to the room. He realized a second too late how it sounded.

The confusion in the room was palpable, and Escobar capitalized on it. "See?" he smirked. "He's ordering you to ignore the General. What possible reason could he have for doing that? Did it ever occur to you all that there could be a second mole?"

Eliot tried and failed to keep the panic out of this voice. _Do not lose control of this situation, Spencer. Juan's life is at stake._ "He's lying. Don't listen to him. He's trying to save his own ass."

"Save my own ass? My ass is cooked, thanks to you, Spencer. But if I'm going down, I may as well take you with me." In that moment, Escobar's smile was not unlike Moreau's.

"Why — why would Moreau have two moles?" Pete Rodriguez again. Thank God someone was being rational.

"Good question, Rodriguez. Why would Moreau waste his resources like that?" Eliot challenged.

"Well, he wouldn't," Escobar said, still smiling. He spoke to the room, but he looked at Eliot. "At least, not intentionally. See, Spencer's defection wasn't a complete act. He chickened out at the last minute. Did no one wonder why it took Moreau a month to 'figure out' that Spencer was alive? It was because that's exactly how long it took Spencer to realize he'd made a mistake — and how long it took Moreau to take him back under his wing."

Eliot was frozen in shock. Escobar was spinning a story — a very believable story — and he could tell that the room was buying it. But surely Juan, who had believed in Eliot from the beginning, wouldn't take the bait.

But Escobar wasn't finished. "That's why he outed me. So he could be the mole, get back in Moreau's good graces, and be The Chosen One again."

Eliot winced at the name, but the room saw it as a confession.

"Spencer ... ?" The look of betrayal in the General's eyes told Eliot that Escobar had succeeded. For a fraction of a second he saw his own father, disappointed and betrayed by Eliot's decision to join the service. Then the General was back, and the look in his eyes tore Eliot's heart in two.

"No, Juan, I swear, I would never —" He sounded desperate — because he was.

Escobar laughed. "Oh yes, you would never — the honorable Eliot Spencer, baby-killer. You would never do anything wrong, would you?" His smile was evil as he hit the mark. "Moreau is pleased with your work, Spencer."

Eliot was shaking. How could he have lost control of the situation so quickly? Escobar was good, and he was taking his revenge on the man who had caught him.

"He's lying," Eliot said. His shaky voice barely convinced himself. "He's trying to discredit me ..." He heard how pathetic his own story sounded. The commanders were trying to decide who was the bigger threat. Right now it was Escobar, but Eliot was next. He knew he was done. But Escobar would only get Eliot Spencer — no one else.

He'd be damned if Moreau was going win this one.

Eliot dropped the knife from his sleeve to his hand and threw it at Escobar. It hit Escobar's right hand, which held the gun. He yelped and dropped the weapon. The General took the opportunity to get the upper hand, and everyone rushed in to arrest Escobar.

Except for Eliot. He grasped the table with one hand as he felt a sharp pain in his right side. He looked down. There was a knife — it looked like one of his, but he couldn't be sure — sticking out of him between his ninth and tenth ribs. He looked across the table to where the knife had come from, and there stood Pete Rodriguez. By the look in his eyes, Eliot could tell he was horrified at what he'd just done.

"Spencer — I thought you were —"

"Aiming for the General," Eliot smiled. "That's right ... protect the principal ..." He took out the knife and dropped it on the table — the worst thing to do if you didn't want to bleed out, but that was exactly what Eliot wanted. The red stain spread quickly, and he was already feeling dizzy.

"It's funny," he slurred. "I knew that if someone was going to ... that it would be you ..." He simultaneously resented and respected Rodriguez, who had been the only one to see Eliot as the bigger threat. He smiled — he was already out of breath. "Thanks, Rodriguez."

He collapsed. All of the sudden, Juan was there, and Rodriguez was next to him.

"Eliot!" The General grabbed Eliot's face in his hands. He looked frightened.

_Why? This is for the best._

"You okay?" Eliot slurred. _Protect the principal._

"I'm fine, Eliot," the General said. "Look at me. Stay awake — Get a doctor!" he shouted to no one in particular.

"Juan ... I swear ... I'm not ... in league ... with Moreau," Eliot said, his breathing shallow. _He has to understand that._ "I would never ... do that ... you saved me ..." His head was lolling; he was losing consciousness fast.

"I know, Eliot," Juan said, tears in his eyes. The look of betrayal was gone. Eliot smiled with relief. "I know. Just stay awake, you're going to be fine, we're getting a doctor ..."

"No ..." He had trouble getting the words out; he could barely breathe. "No ... please ... it's okay ... I want this ... it's better ..." He swallowed. "I deserve it ... I'm so sorry ..."

Juan brought his face right up to Eliot's. "No, Eliot, you don't deserve it. You can still do good. Don't give up now!"

Eliot shook his head. "It's better ... thank you ... you ... believed ... in me ..."

He looked at Pete Rodriguez. His eyes were more pained than usual. _Why?_ Eliot smiled at the man. "S'okay ... thanks ... Pete ..."

Then the darkness engulfed him.

.

.

.

The first thing Eliot was aware of was the brightness. _Who knew Hell was so bright?_

Then he was aware of the pain. His right side was on fire. _Yup ... Hell._

Then he heard beeping. A constant, high-pitched "beep ... beep ... beep ..." that would definitely drive him mad if he heard it long enough. _Odd choice of torture ..._

Then he felt thirsty. "Water," he tried to say. He wasn't sure what sound his mouth made, but he was positive it wasn't "water." At least, not in any language he knew.

Then he heard a voice. "He's waking up! General!"

_No, it couldn't be ..._

He opened his eyes and saw Pete Rodriguez.

He was definitely in Hell.

He jumped away and his side erupted in pain. He looked for a weapon, any weapon, but he couldn't see one. He didn't even know where he was. The beeping was fast now: "beep-beep-beep-beep-beep …"

"Spencer, it's okay, settle down —"

"What's going on?" _Juan?_

"I didn't do anything, I swear! He just opened his eyes and —"

"Eliot," Juan was right next to him. He placed a hand on Eliot's shoulder. It had a calming effect. The beeping slowed. "Relax. Calm down."

Eliot lay back down and looked around. He was in his room, in the barracks. But he was attached to a heart monitor and an IV. This wasn't possible. _I'm still alive?_

He looked at Juan, who smiled. "Am I alive? What happened?"

Juan chuckled. "Yes, you're alive. As for what happened," he chuckled again. "Let's just say that my daughter Maria would call you a 'drama queen'."

Rodriguez snorted. Eliot glared at him. "What the fuck are you doing here? You almost killed me!"

Juan chuckled again. "Actually, he didn't ..." More chuckling.

"Will someone please explain to me what the fuck is so damned funny?!"

Juan forced himself to be serious. "You're right. I apologize. You remember what happened?"

Escobar ... Juan as a hostage ... lies about working with Moreau —

He started to hyperventilate. The beeping sped up again. "Juan, I swear, Escobar was lying. I'm not a mole, I would never —" he pleaded.

Juan put his hand on Eliot's shoulder. The beeping slowed down, and Eliot ripped the sensors off. _That's enough of that._ The monitor made one long, loud "BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP" before Juan reached over and switched it off.

"We know, Eliot. Calm down. We know. Escobar's story, while believable at first glance, did not stand up to further scrutiny."

Rodriguez looked ashamed. "I'm sorry, I didn't —"

"Pete fell for the story just like the rest of us," Juan said to Rodriguez, then turned to Eliot, "and misunderstood your knife to be aimed for me, not for Escobar."

"To be fair, there was only a couple-inch difference ..." Rodriguez mumbled.

"And —" The General help up a hand before Eliot could interject. " — he threw a knife at you. It hit you between the ninth and tenth ribs on your right side."

_Obviously._

"The thing is…" Juan smiled again. "You were never in any real danger. Pete's knife hit you in a fleshy spot — some muscle and fat, nothing vital. You bled a lot — enough to pass out, but not enough to even need a transfusion."

The General's smile melted away, and his face became serious. "However, your reaction to the wound concerns me." He turned to Rodriguez. "I need to speak with Eliot alone. Please give us the room."

"But you said —"

The General held up a hand. "You will have your turn, Pete, I promise. But I need to speak with Eliot first."

Rodriguez avoided Eliot's eyes as he left the room.

Juan waited for the door to close. Then, "Eliot ... do you want to die?"

Eliot was surprised by the abruptness. He swallowed and realized he had no saliva. "Could I get some water?"

"Of course." The General obliged, but he was waiting for an answer.

Eliot was trembling again. He took a deep, shaky breath. "I ... I don't know."

"Yes you do," Juan said sternly. "It's a simple question. Yes or no?"

Eliot looked at his hands and nodded. He couldn't speak.

"Why?"

It was a simple question, but the answer was complex. He didn't say anything for a long time.

"Eliot?" Juan prompted.

He took another deep breath. "Because I deserve it ... " Barely a whisper.

"Why do you think that?"

Eliot's eyes flashed. "Why do you think?" he snapped.

"I know what I think. I want to hear what you think."

_Damn you, Flores._ "I've done things ... awful things ... someone like me ..." He swallowed. "Someone like me doesn't deserve to be alive."

"Really? And who decides that? Who decides who deserves to live and who deserves to die?" the General asked.

Eliot didn't say anything. He didn't know how to respond.

"Because you know who that sounds like to me? That sounds like Damien Moreau."

Eliot winced. The words hurt. "I decide. I decide if I deserve to live or die. Someone like me —"

"Someone like you saved my life today. Someone like you exposed a mole in our organization, saving who knows how many other lives. Someone like you ..." He paused. "Someone like you discovered the truth about my son's death. Now tell me, does that sound like someone who deserves to die?"

Eliot was silent.

"Eliot." Juan's voice was kind. Eliot looked him in the eyes; they were kind, too. "You have done some truly terrible things. You will never be clean of them. I don't believe that you will ever be able to do anything to make up for what you've done."

A pain seared through Eliot's heart. It was one thing to think that about himself, but to hear it spoken aloud, by Juan ...

"But," Juan continued, "that doesn't mean that you can't do good. It doesn't mean that you aren't capable of becoming a good person. Death ..." He paused again, thoughtfully. "Death is too easy for you, Eliot. You think you deserve death as a punishment? I think you deserve life as a punishment, because no punishment anyone else could come up with could ever be as horrible as the guilt you will feel for the rest of your life."

Eliot met Juan's eyes. They were still kind. They were grateful. They were ... hopeful.

"You can punish yourself much better if you're alive," Juan said. "And you can do good. Why not try to do both?"

Eliot nodded. He had never thought of it that way.

"The burden you carry, the guilt you feel, it's terrible, and it's suffocating. But it's good. It means you have a conscience. That's what makes you different from Damien Moreau."

Eliot didn't know what to say, so he said the phrase he'd never be able to say enough. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? Wanting to die? Don't be sorry. Just fix it." Juan stood up to leave, but he paused. "Thank you, Eliot, for what you did today. I will be forever in your debt." He opened the door.

"Wait — what about Escobar? Did he tell you why he did it?"

The General's eyes darkened. "No, he didn't. While I was waiting for you to get out of surgery, he hanged himself."

"Could Moreau have — ? That's how he does things."

"No. No one came or went. He was in the Tombs. Only one way in or out. He did it himself. He was a coward." He spat out the last word.

"Yes he was." Eliot wanted to say something else, but wasn't sure how. "Juan ..."

The General waited.

"Your son ... Roberto ... he was a good man." He paused. "I know it's true because — because Moreau wanted him dead." Juan's eyes filled with tears. Eliot looked away, but continued. "He wanted him dead more than he wanted you dead, because the people of San Lorenzo looked to him as their next leader. He was Moreau's biggest enemy. I know because —" He took a breath. " — because he asked me to kill him. He asked me to plan it, to make it happen. But Escobar — I didn't get the chance. I wish I had. I would have liked to have met him. I think that —" He swallowed. "I think that if I had, I'd have been on your side a long time ago. I think he could have turned me against Moreau before ... before I had so much blood on my hands."

He heard Juan move, and he looked up in time to see the man embrace him, tightly. He hadn't been held like that in ... too long. His eyes stung.

Juan pulled away and smiled. "When you're up to it, I want you to come to dinner. I want you to meet Anita and Maria. They'll be more than happy to talk about Berto." He paused. "Maria, she's taken it hard. They were close, and she has no one now ... I think she would like you." He smiled. "When you're feeling better."

He walked to the door again. "Now, I think I'd better let Pete in here before he has a conniption."

Eliot winced. "Juan, I really don't want —"

"Please. He needs to do this. Just listen to him." Juan paused thoughtfully. "He doesn't have anyone either ... I think you would be good for him."

_What the hell? First your daughter, now Rodriguez?_ "Juan, do you hear yourself? You literally just finished convincing me that I don't deserve to die. Do you really think I'm a good role model for the kids?"

Juan laughed. "It's not just 'the kids' that could benefit, Eliot."

.

.

.

Pete Rodriguez entered the room awkwardly. He was clearly uncomfortable, but he sat down in the chair next to Eliot's bed.

Eliot waited, but not patiently. _I'm not Juan._ "You got something you need to say, Rodriguez?"

Rodriguez cleared his throat. "Spencer ... I'm sorry."

Eliot waited what he felt was a sufficient amount of time, then said, "That it? Great. You can go now. I'm exhausted."

Rodriguez breathed in as if preparing to say something, then nodded and got up to leave.

_He doesn't have anyone._

Eliot shook his head. _Just let him leave, Spencer._

_I think you would be good for him._

_Damn you, Juan._ "Wait." Eliot cringed, eyes closed, as if he'd rather not see the outcome. "Sit down."

Rodriguez sheepishly sat down. He looked like he expected to be chewed out.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "Escobar was really convincing, and I thought —"

"It's fine." _Did you really just say that, Spencer?_ "You were doing your job. Protect the principal."

"What does that mean?" Rodriguez asked. "You said it before, but I didn't understand."

"It's a term used in personal security. The principal is the person you're protecting, in this case the General. And that's what you did — or attempted to do." Eliot had still been able to throw his knife, after all. "You were the only one to see me as the threat, not Escobar. That was good." Rodriguez made a face. "I'm serious. If Escobar had been right, I was the most dangerous person in the room. You saw that, and you reacted." He paused. "You did exactly what I would have done."

Rodriguez's eyes lit up and he smiled, as if that was the greatest compliment he'd ever received. Eliot's heart felt just a little bit lighter.

He wasn't exactly sure what to say next, so he tried small talk. "Where'd you get the knife?"

The smile was gone now, and Rodriguez's eyes widened in terror. "I — um — well ... See, I found it ..."

Eliot's eyes narrowed. "Where?"

"Um ... in here ..." he said quietly, avoiding Eliot's eyes. "When you ... weren't."

"I knew it!" Eliot exclaimed. "You stole it! I knew I recognized it!"

"Sorry," Rodriguez mumbled.

"No, no 'sorry'. Why did you take it?"

"Well, I saw you with them, when you were showing some of the other guys, and it looked really cool. I actually tried on my own with some kitchen knives, but it didn't work out so well."

Eliot chuckled. "No, it wouldn't. Those knives are crap, even for kitchen knives. A throwing knife needs to be balanced."

"Yeah, I figured, so that's why I —"

"Stole one of mine," Eliot snapped. Rodriguez flinched, which surprised Eliot. He softened his voice. "You could have just asked me, you know. I would have shown you."

"Yeah, but ..."

"You didn't trust me."

Rodriguez nodded.

They were silent for a while. Eliot thought about asking the question that had plagued him for months, but he couldn't bring himself to see the pain in the boy's eyes.

"So how long did you practice with it?"

"Not long. A week, maybe."

"A week? Impressive. You hit me between the ninth and tenth ribs. Fleshy, but lots of blood loss. Enough to disable, but not kill." Eliot tried not to remember that he himself had forgotten that fact.

Rodriguez looked sheepish. "Yeah ... I wasn't aiming for that."

Eliot froze. "What were you aiming for?"

"Your neck."

Eliot's eyes widened. "My neck?! Are you fucking kidding me, Rodriguez?"

"I'm sorry, okay?! I thought you were working with Moreau! You threw your knife, I thought you were going to kill the General! I just reacted!"

"No. No. This is _not_ okay. General!" he yelled.

Juan came through the door.

"Is everything alright?" He looked concerned.

"No, everything is absolutely _not_ fucking alright! Are you aware that Rodriguez was not, in fact, aiming for the spot between my ninth and tenth ribs, but was aiming for my neck?"

The General's eyes brimmed with worry. "No, I wasn't aware of that. But Eliot, I'd ask you to understand —"

"Understand?!" He turned to Rodriguez. "You were six feet away. _Six. Feet._ And you missed?!"

Silence. Juan tried to hide a smile.

"Um, what?" Rodriguez blinked.

"You said you practiced for a week with that knife. How many times did you throw it? Once?"

Rodriguez turned beet red. "Hey! No, okay, I threw it _a lot_. But it took me a while to get it to stick. Like, in the wall."

Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's it," he said, sitting up and throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. "Get up. I'm going to teach you. Now."

Juan stepped in. "No, Eliot, you are not getting up."

"General, I don't think you understand. Pete here is a danger to himself and others. I need to do this, for the greater good."

The General smiled and pushed him back down. "Relax. You'll have plenty of time. But you need to rest now." Then, under his breath, so only Eliot could hear, "Maybe dial it down a couple of notches?"

Eliot winked at him. It wasn't _all_ an act. As an expert in his craft, he _was_ offended at Pete's complete lack of coordination. But, he really should be grateful; if Pete had actually _hit_ what he'd been aiming at ...

Eliot sighed dramatically. "I suppose you can be forgiven, since your ineptitude saved my life."

Pete smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, shouldn't you be grateful?"

Eliot's eyes narrowed. "Don't push it."

.

.

.

Eliot smiled. He hadn't thought about that exchange in years; it had always been overshadowed by later, unhappier memories. He was struck by how much Pete had been a combination of Parker and Hardison.

He felt a twinge. He really loved all three of them.

"Eliot?"

"Huh?" _Shit._ Parker had just asked him a question.

"I said, are you ready to go?"

Eliot smirked. "Yeah. Let's do this."

To the Tombs.


	8. Chapter 8

_I want to thank everyone who's been reading this so far, and especially those who have reviewed. I'm glad everyone seems to like it so much! I update this every Friday, and, since many of you keep asking/begging, I *promise* I will finish it. quirkapotamus and Valawenel will make sure of that, even if I don't :) Thanks again for reading, and I hope you enjoy!_

_._

Chapter 8

"Flores — getting him out is gonna be loud, and it's gonna be messy," Eliot told Nate over the comms.

He and Parker were underground, trying to figure out a way to get the General out of prison. But the Tombs were impossible to break into. _Even for Parker._

"Hey, how 'bout this?" Parker said.

_Or maybe not._

Parker banged on a metal panel. "Steam vent," she said. "Welded shut."

_Nevermind. _"It's a steam vent, Parker! People don't —" Parker shot him a look. He corrected himself. "_Normal_ people don't go — you ca — they feel like — it will _burn_ you —"

Damn, that girl made him want to hit things. A fucking steam vent? And yet, he realized with a pang, that's what he loved about her — about all of them, really — and what he'd be leaving behind.

Parker had stopped. "This is it, right here. This intersection, sixty feet below the street."

"You sure that's sixty feet down?" _How the hell can you tell?_

Then Parker opened her mouth and sang a single, long note: "Ahhhhhh!"

Eliot looked around to make sure no one heard her. _Seriously?_

"Yup, that's it. Sixty feet. That pipe!"

_There's something wrong with you._ Shaking his head, Eliot took the monkey wrench they'd brought and unscrewed the pipe.

.

.

.

"Hello?"

"General." Eliot smiled in relief. Juan sounded okay over the phone they'd sent him — alive and conscious, at least — even if he was confused.

"Always full of surprises," the General said, a smile in his voice.

"We're working on a way to get you outta there, sir."

"And my people? The rest of my cabinet. Men I fought with, my ministers. They're down here with me. I can't leave without them."

_Dammit, Juan, don't do this. _"Sir, we can barely find a way to get you outta there _alone_." It would be impossible to break them all out. Eliot didn't even know how many "all" meant.

"These people you are with now — would you leave any of them behind? Ever?"

Eliot paused. He looked over at Parker, who smiled sweetly. _Damn you, Juan._

"I thought so. I cannot take the chance they will kill these men in reprisal if you rescue me. Leave me here, no matter what." The General hung up.

Eliot was stunned. They had to get him out; they couldn't just leave him there. Eliot knew some of the other men imprisoned down there, and he was positive that they, too, would agree that getting the General out should be first priority.

"You okay?" Parker sounded concerned.

He didn't meet her eyes, but talked into the comms. "Nate, I hope you're having a better day than we are."

"Not exactly," Nate said. Apparently the press conference had gone to hell too.

_Fuck._ Only a few hours in and already their plans had hit a wall.

They started to head back to the surface, when the phone in Eliot's hand rang. He and Parker looked at each other. The phone was a burner, and the only other person who had the number was —

"General?" Eliot answered. It was his turn to sound confused.

"Eliot. I know you're not happy with my decision, but there's something else I need you to do for me."

"Anything." If Juan wouldn't allow him to break him out of prison, Eliot would do whatever else the man asked. He owed him that much.

"I need you to check on Anita and Maria for me."

_Shit._ Eliot had completely forgotten about the General's family. How could he have forgotten about them? This was the second time in less than 24 hours that someone had made him realize he had been too self-absorbed for the past week. Maria and Anita should have been his first thought when Juan was arrested. What kind of man was he turning into?

"Where are they?" he asked.

"Is this phone secure?"

Eliot winced at the reminder that he'd fucked up last time. "Yes. Completely untraceable this time."

"I'll text you an address. Hold on."

The phone beeped and Eliot saw the address. His eyes widened in horror.

"They're still in the country? Juan, why the hell didn't you send them away? It's way too dangerous!"

"I tried, Eliot, but Maria wouldn't listen. She said she wanted the babies to be born in San Lorenzo."

_The babies._ He had forgotten Maria was pregnant. Very pregnant. With twins. "Jesus, Juan. How far along is she?"

"She's due in a few weeks."

"Dammit! She shouldn't be here!"

"I know, Eliot. We all tried to convince her — me, Anita, Matty ... She wouldn't listen."

"Is Matty with them?" Mateo Ramirez, Maria's husband, was an old friend of Eliot's. If memory served, they also had another child, a little boy. He'd be about three years old. Eliot felt a twinge of guilt.

That was happening a lot lately.

"Yes. Matty and Maria, with Anita and Berto."

_Berto. They'd named him after her brother._ Another twinge.

"Okay, I promise to make sure they're alright. I'll let you know as soon as I find out."

"Thank you, Eliot. If there's anything I can do ..."

"You mean other than stop being a martyr and let us rescue you?"

"Eliot ..."

"I know." Eliot sighed. He should have seen this coming. The General would never let anyone risk their lives for him. And as frustrated as Eliot was, he also knew that Juan was right — he'd never leave _his _team behind, ever. "I'll let you know."

"Make sure they know I'm safe, and that ... tell them I love them."

The words made Eliot's heart hurt. "You can tell them yourself when this is all over," he said, his voice a little huskier than he intended. "But I'll let them know so they don't worry."

"Thank you." Juan hung up.

"Change in plans?" Parker asked.

"Not for you, but I have something I need to take care of. Nate, I'm gonna need the rest of the day to do something for General Flores."

But Nate was in the middle of something. Eliot listened with growing horror.

"... your man Ribera, he's already arrested his main opponent," Nate was saying. "So if anything further were to go wrong with his election like, say, the kidnapping of U.S. citizens ... you just might lose your safe-haven."

Moreau's voice purred over the comms. "Make it interesting, Ford."

Eliot froze. _Moreau knows we're here._

There was no way they'd get out of this alive.

Eliot started to run. "Nate, I'm headed back. We need to pull the plug. Now."

"You do know I haven't hacked into any of the security feeds in parliament," he heard Hardison say.

"Nate, did you hear me?!"

"Yeah," Nate said, clearly in response to Hardison.

_I can't do my job if you fucking ignore me!_

"I should go get on that," Hardison said.

"Do." Nate's voice was strained. Then he said, under his breath, but loud enough for the comms to pick up, "Oh boy, Sophie, what have you done?"

.

.

.

"Dammit, Nate, we have to pull the plug on this now!"

Eliot had pulled Nate out of the main room of Michael Vittori's campaign headquarters for a private talk. They were in a back room of some sort, with a conference table and chairs. Sophie was still talking to the press, and Hardison was backing up her story online. Eliot had no idea where Parker was.

"No, Eliot, we're not stopping just because Moreau knows we're here."

"'Just because Moreau knows we're here'?!" _How can he be so nonchalant about this?_ "Sophie didn't leave a pair of fucking shoes at home, Nate! Our cover's blown! Do you have any idea what he'll do to us? He's watching our every move. There's no way we can pull this off now! We need to leave the country immediately."

"We are not leaving, Eliot. This is our only chance. He won't hurt us during the election. The international community is watching —"

"You think that's going to fucking stop Damien Moreau?! He doesn't give a damn who's watching!" He was starting to sound hysterical, but it was because he was afraid — afraid of what Moreau would do to them. His team. He knew what Moreau was capable of — Nate didn't.

"In this case, he does. The kidnapping of U.S. citizens is too high profile for him to risk. So we have a week. We can do this."

"Nate," Eliot said, trying to reason with the man. "He will _kill_ us. But first, he'll — " He couldn't even say it out loud, but he had to. When he spoke again, his voice shook. "He'll _hurt_ them, Nate, and make you and me watch. Trust me when I tell you that you don't understand what's at risk here."

"Do you honestly think I don't know what Moreau will do?" Nate said quietly. "I saw first-hand what he was prepared to do when we almost had him in D.C. — and what you had to do to stop it."

Eliot turned away. He hadn't been able to look Nate in the eyes since the warehouse. This was neither the time nor the place to have this conversation. "Nate —"

"Let's finish this. We have to stop Moreau. I know what's at stake. I know we're out of our league."

Eliot turned back to the mastermind and blinked. _Is he admitting there are things he can't handle?_

"But when I think of all the people that Moreau has hurt, and all the people that will be hurt if we don't stop him … I know that we can't just quit. Help me finish this. Please."

Eliot was surprised to hear fear and _doubt_ in Nate's voice. He remembered the feeling, when he had chosen to stay with the General — thinking of all the blood that would be on his hands if he didn't help. _But…_ "Nate, if anything happens to any of them —"

"I need you to make sure that won't happen. We need to plan for everything. I want plans to get them out if this goes south."

"Us, Nate. Plans to get _us_ out."

_These people you are with now — would you leave any of them behind? Ever?_

Eliot shook his head. _Never._

"Yes, but them first, Eliot. Then you, then me. I can —"

"How about you just worry about how to con Moreau, and I'll worry about getting us all out of here alive, okay?"

Nate looked visibly relieved. He gave a quick nod and said, "Right. Okay, first we need to —"

"First I need the rest of the day to take care of some things for the General."

Nate blinked. "Absolutely not. I need you here, making sure nothing happens. And you and Parker need to start working on those other plans."

"And if I'm going to get us all out of here alive, I need the rest of the day to take care of some things." A plan was already forming in Eliot's head.

"Can you be a bit more specific? 'Take care of some things?' I need to know what you're up to."

"Like I said, you worry about conning Moreau, let me worry about —"

"No, Eliot! No more secrets!" Nate said it with such vehemence that Eliot actually took a step back. Nate took a breath, and when he spoke again, he was calmer. "Listen. I trust you to do what you think is best, but I need to know you aren't going to do anything stupid."

"What the hell are you getting at?"

"I need to know ..." Nate paused. "Eliot, promise me you won't try to take out Moreau on your own."

Eliot stared at the mastermind, who, of all things, sounded _worried_. Was Nate actually concerned—about _him_? Eliot swallowed. The man was too damned smart for his own good, but he was wrong in this case. _Sort of._

"No," Eliot said quietly. "No, that's not my plan. Not yet, anyway," he added, and Nate opened his mouth to argue. "Listen, Nate, it's my job to get everyone out alive, to protect the team. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to ensure that job gets done. But I'm not suicidal, either. I can't protect you if I'm dead." He paused, then smiled. "It's an option, but it's plan quadruple-Z, alright? Only if there's absolutely no other way."

Nate let out a long breath that Eliot hadn't been aware he'd been holding. He couldn't forget the concern in Nate's voice … and his heart squeezed as he thought about when this job was finished.

"So what's your plan?" Nate asked.

"You're gonna steal the election, right? Well, I know people here in San Lorenzo. People who respect General Flores, who will support him — or the candidate he supports. So I'm going to rally the troops — so to speak."

"You can do that in an afternoon?" Nate sounded skeptical.

"Well, not exactly. I'll be delegating. To the General's heir apparent."

"And who would that be?" the mastermind asked, eyebrow cocked.

Eliot turned to leave. "You'll see." He smiled. "I'll bring him back with me."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"Commanders Eliot Spencer and Pete Rodriguez: Matchmakers!" Pete said with a huge smile as he twirled a knife expertly in and out of his fingers. "Look at us!"

He took a swig of beer and, without looking, tossed the knife to his right. It hit a target on the wall thirty feet away: bulls-eye.

Eliot smiled. It had only been about six months since the Non-Fatal Stabbing Incident, as everyone had taken to calling it — much to the chagrin of both Pete and Eliot — but Pete had made great progress. It had taken Eliot years to get to the stage where he could throw a knife and hit the target without looking. All Pete had needed was some proper instruction. But Eliot would never let Pete know any of that.

He scowled. "Matchmakers? Say that again, Rodriguez, and I'll break your hand. Then you'll have to start your training all over with the left one."

"Hey, I'm getting better!" Pete protested. To prove it, he grabbed another knife and attempted the same throw with his left hand. The point of this blade stuck in the wall, too, but only barely, a foot from the target. The knife vibrated from the force, and fell out of the wall onto the floor.

Eliot raised his eyebrows. "You're a natural," he said dryly, and took a swig of his own beer.

They were in the mess hall. It was late, and everyone else had gone to bed, but Pete had insisted that they celebrate their success with some drinks. Eliot wasn't tired, and Pete was so excited that Eliot couldn't have said no even if he'd wanted to.

"Come on, El, you aren't even a little bit proud of what we did tonight?"

"What 'we' did tonight? There was a distinct lack of 'we' the whole evening, Pete. I did all the hard work. You just sat back and watched."

"Hey," Pete said in mock-seriousness. "_I_ was the plucky comic relief." But then he smiled; he was obviously too happy to even pretend to be serious. "That's an essential ingredient of any matchmaking story."

Eliot rolled his eyes, but smiled as he drank his beer.

"But seriously," Pete said conspiratorially. "How scared were you, really?"

"I wasn't scared of anything."

"Oh, right, of course, Eliot Spencer, never scared, got it." Pete winked as though he was rehearsing a cover story. "But really, how scared were you? I mean, you asked the General for his daughter's hand in marriage!"

"Stop saying it like that, Pete! People are gonna start to get the wrong idea!"

Pete laughed. "That's kinda the point!"

Eliot couldn't help but laugh, too. Pete's happiness was contagious. And that's exactly what it was — happiness. He had never seen the man's eyes sparkle like that before, without a hint of the pain that seemed to always lurk there. And that he _was_ proud of.

It had all started a month before, when he'd received a call in the middle of the night.

.

.

.

Eliot heard the phone ringing. He'd just returned from a mission, and he was exhausted. He looked at the clock: _3:37 am_. He'd only gotten back at two. But he was concerned, because he never got calls at this hour. He never got calls ever. Not since he'd left Moreau.

"Spencer," he said into the phone.

"Eliot, I need to talk with you."

"Maria?"

He sat up, suddenly awake, and smacked his head on the top bunk. He swore loudly in several languages before remembering the time of night; he continued to swear, but quietly.

"Eliot, are you okay? What happened?"

"Nothing, I just hit my head. Why are you calling? Is everything okay?"

Silence.

"Maria?" he asked, panic audible in his voice.

"I'm fine, I just need to talk with you."

"Can it wait until morning? I just got to sleep —"

"I need to talk now, Eliot, please."

She sounded upset. "Fine, I'll be right over."

He got dressed quietly, still swearing at his throbbing head. He tried carefully not to wake Pete, who had been on the same mission with him and was, if possible, even more exhausted than Eliot.

Eliot hadn't wanted to share a room, but after the Non-Fatal Stabbing Incident, Pete had begged him, and — although Eliot wouldn't ever tell him — Eliot could never say 'no' to Pete. Whenever he said 'yes', the pain disappeared from Pete's eyes for a little while, and that made Eliot feel better than he'd felt in a long time. He was a sap, and he knew it, and it was Juan's fault. He shook his head.

He snuck up to the Flores mansion and knocked on the back door. The guard gave him a look, but Eliot glared at him and the man glanced away.

_It's not what you think ... I hope._

Maria answered the door and ushered him inside.

"You know," he whispered, "if your father catches me here —"

"He'll invite you upstairs for some scotch and a cigar." Maria rolled her eyes. "So shut up."

Eliot couldn't argue with that. Ever since he'd exposed Escobar, not only had he been promoted to the rank of commander — the only non-citizen ever to be given such an honor — he'd become a frequent guest at the Flores house: dinners, drinks, even a party or two. And Juan hadn't been lying when he said that Maria and his wife, Anita, would like him. They _adored_ him. They were so grateful to him for discovering the truth about Roberto's death and providing them closure that they had welcomed him with open arms. It actually made Eliot feel a bit uncomfortable — like he was replacing their son and brother. There was no doubt he was filling some void, especially with Juan, who was constantly inviting him for scotch and cigars. But the relationship filled a void for Eliot, too — Juan was almost like a father to him, and it made him feel good to know that someone thought he was a good man. The scotch and cigars didn't hurt either; Juan's collection of Cubans was better than any Eliot had ever seen — or stolen, and that was saying something.

He followed Maria silently up the stairs, into a room he'd never entered before. He knew immediately that it was her bedroom — posters, make-up, clothes everywhere. There _was_ less pink than he'd imagined, considering she was a teenage girl, but not by much.

"Maria, what's going on? You sounded upset on the phone."

She turned to him with tears in her eyes. "Eliot, I'm in trouble."

Eliot's heart skipped a beat. "What kind of trouble? Are you okay?"

She sighed and flopped dramatically onto her bed. "Eliot, have you ever been in love?"

Eliot groaned. He should have expected this.

"Maria," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, "when I told you that you could call me whenever you needed me, this is _not_ what I had in mind."

"You told me to call if I was in trouble. Well, I am!"

"Maria, being in love is not what I meant by trouble, okay? I just got back from a mission, and I need to be up at eight tomorrow, so can we talk about this later?"

She stared at him, her wide eyes brimming with tears.

_I am definitely going soft._

He sighed. "Okay. Who is he? Or she?" he added quickly. She was young, after all.

"That's the problem, Eliot. I — I don't know if I should ..."

He'd been up for almost 36 hours straight. He was _not_ in the mood for this crap.

"Spit it out, Maria," he said, a little too harshly. He immediately softened his voice and continued, "Just tell me. I promise I won't laugh."

"It's just that —" She looked away, embarrassed. "He doesn't know, and I'm afraid of what he'll think. He probably doesn't even think of me that way. He probably thinks that I'm more like his annoying little sister than anyone he could ever be in love with ..."

Eliot's eyes widened in horror. _Is she talking about me?_ The conversation had just taken a turn for the very awkward, and Eliot tried to find a way to get out of it. His heart started pounding. He couldn't believe it. Was he actually afraid of a 16-year-old girl?

"Uh ... listen, Maria, maybe I'm not the person you should be talking to about this ... maybe your mother ..." He ran his hands through his hair nervously.

"Oh, she wouldn't understand, she thinks of him as her son, too!" she said dramatically.

Okay, he really needed to extricate himself from this situation now.

"Actually, Maria, listen, Pete got hit pretty hard on the head during the mission, and I told him I'd wake him up every hour to make sure he didn't get concussed, so I should really —"

"It's Matty Ramirez!" she blurted out, eyes closed.

_Wait, Matty?_ Eliot froze, then laughed out loud in relief.

Maria looked at him in horror. "You said you wouldn't laugh!"

Eliot forced himself to be serious. "You're right, I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you. It's just —" He ran his hands through his hair again. "Dammit, Maria, I thought you were talking about _me_!"

The look of horror was replaced with one of disgust. "Ew! Eliot, that's disgusting! You're way too old for me!"

"Hey! I'm not _that_ much older than you are ..."

"Plus, that'd be like — ugh! You're like my brother, Eliot!"

He suddenly became very serious. "Don't say that, Maria," he whispered. "I'm not your brother ..."

She took a deep, shaky breath. "No, you're not. But this is exactly the type of thing I would talk to Berto about, and since he's not here ..." Her voice broke. Then she looked at him, a fire in her eyes. "Well, he's not here, and he wouldn't want me sitting and moping about it, so I found the next best thing!"

Eliot suddenly felt overwhelmed, and he couldn't speak for a minute. He was honored that she felt that way, but he felt a pang of guilt, as he always did when he felt like he was replacing Berto Flores.

He cleared his throat and said, with a smile, "Alright, then. Matty, huh?"

"Yeah." She blushed.

"So, what's the problem?"

"He was Berto's best friend, Eliot."

_Right._ Matty was even more a part of the family than Eliot. When Matty's parents had died, the Flores family took him in. He and Berto — and Maria — had grown up together, almost as siblings. Matty and Berto had gone to school together and joined the service together. They were practically inseparable — or so Eliot had heard.

"Are you afraid he wouldn't approve, Maria?" he asked softly.

"Yes ... but it's not just that," she said. "Matty and I have known each other forever. But he's always known me as Berto's stupid little sister. What if he doesn't feel the same way?"

Eliot took a deep breath. He was terrible at this. "Well, it seems like there's two things at issue here, so let's tackle them one at a time. But first, tell me about Matty. When did you first realize you were in love with him?"

"He's always been around, hanging out with Berto, you know? But after Berto was killed ... well, we got closer. We would talk about him together, and it made me feel a little better, knowing that there was someone out there who loved and missed him as much as I did. And then it kinda ... turned into more. We started talking about other things — I'd talk about school and he'd tell me about what's going on with Papa at work. And then he was away for a while – you remember that mission you guys went on?"

Eliot nodded. He'd noticed Matty had seemed a little down on that mission, too.

"Well," Maria continued. "I missed him. I missed him so much it hurt. And I was so happy to see him when he got back."

She smiled as if remembering. Then she looked Eliot in the eyes.

"And I know I've never been in love before, but I've read about it in books and things, and that's what this sounds like."

Eliot smiled. "Yeah, darlin', that's exactly what love is." He sat down on the bed next to her. "Okay, first thing's first: why do you think your brother wouldn't approve?"

She blushed an even deeper shade of red.. "Well, I dunno, if you had a little sister, and she started dating your best friend, how would you feel?"

Eliot _did_ have a little sister, back home in the U.S. But he hadn't seen her in about ten years, and she had been so young when he left ... he pushed those thoughts from his mind. Instead, he tried to imagine how Berto Flores would have felt.

"Well, if my sister was happy, I'd probably be okay with it. And hell, who better than my best friend to marry her? Then he'd really be part of the family, and at least then I'd know he'd treat her right." He smiled. "Something tells me that Berto would be really happy for the two of you."

"Really?" she asked, eyes wide.

"Really." _One down, one to go. _"Okay, now, about Matty. I assume you haven't told him how you feel?"

She shook her head vigorously. "Every time I try, I get all tongue-tied and can't breathe! I'm so scared that he'll laugh, or tell me he doesn't feel the same way, or look at me with disgust like I'm just his kid sister." She hung her head.

Eliot sighed. "Well, I'm not sure how much I can help you with that one, Maria. You have to tell him sometime, and there's always going to be a risk that he doesn't feel the same way."

"What will I do if he doesn't?"

Eliot chuckled. "It'll hurt, and you'll cry. But then you'll find someone else. You won't be alone, darlin'. If you don't have your heart broken at least once, you won't know the real thing when you find it."

"Have you had your heart broken before?"

Eliot's heart squeezed, as if in memory of the pain. He pictured Aimee, married and happy with someone else ... he had to take a few breaths before he could talk again.

"Yes," he said. "Yes I have. It hurts like hell, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't still hurt." He paused. "But it would hurt more to never have tried at all."

She nodded. "So what should I do? Just tell him? How?"

"You'll find the words when the time is right." He touched her chin and raised her face so that she looked into his eyes. "If he doesn't feel the same way, he's an idiot. And I'll definitely kick his ass for you."

But Eliot was friends with Matty; he smiled inwardly as he realized that kicking his ass probably wouldn't be necessary.

She smiled. "Thank you, Eliot.

"She hugged him, tightly. The Flores family were big on hugging. It never ceased to surprise Eliot when they did it, but he liked it.

He held her tight. "Of course, sweetheart. I hope I did your brother proud."

"You were perfect," she said. Then she stretched and gave a large yawn. "I'm tired. It's a good thing I don't have to get up early tomorrow!"

Eliot's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, how lucky for you ..." he mumbled. It was almost five. He had to get up in three hours. "I gotta go. Your father's gonna expect a report first thing, and he won't be too happy if I can't even stay awake through it."

"Just tell him you were here with me, he'll understand."

"Yeah, somehow I don't think so ... I'll see you tomorrow, kiddo."

As he left, she said, "Ugh, I can't believe you thought it was you. That's disgusting ..."

The next morning at breakfast, he could barely keep his eyes open.

"Where did you go last night?" Pete asked. "I woke up and you were gone."

"Gee, dear, so sorry. Next time I'll leave a note."

Pete sighed and said with mock-concern, "Is that really too much to ask?" Then he lowered his voice. "But seriously, where'd you go? A late night tryst?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"I wish ... I was talking with Maria."

"About what? Is she alright?"

"No, Pete, she's in love."

Pete's eyes lit up. "Really? With whom? Spill!"

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a teenage girl?" Eliot asked.

"All the time," Pete said flippantly. "Who is it?"

Eliot sighed. "Matty."

Pete smirked. "You don't say ..."

Eliot could tell by the look in his eyes that Pete was plotting something.

He was _so_ not in the mood for this.

"What's goin' on, Pete?"

"Well, two nights ago, Matty and I went out drinking."

"Wait, without me?" Eliot frowned. The three of them always went drinking together.

"Yes, El, without you. Matty said —"

"Why without me? I wasn't on duty or anything …"

"El, this story isn't about you!" Pete rolled his eyes. "Matty asked me specifically because he said he needed my advice on something. So we had a few — I think he had to get his courage up." He chuckled. "And he told me he was in love. With his best friend's sister."

Eliot smiled, then nodded. "I had a feeling. Well good. Then I won't have to kick his ass for breaking Maria's heart."

"Wait, that's it?"

"What, were you expecting me to jump for joy? _I'm_ not in love with him."

Pete was literally shaking with excitement.

"Eliot, we have been given a unique opportunity here. We've got to get these two kids together!"

"Pete, Matty is a year older than you. You can't call him 'kid'..."

But he couldn't stop Pete's enthusiasm. For the first time since he'd known Pete, he didn't see any pain in his eyes. Only excitement and happiness ... and hope.

"C'mon, El, it'll be fun!"

He could never say 'no' to Pete.

"Fine," he grumbled. "What do I need to do?"

.

.

.

So here they were, a month later, and Pete was toasting their triumph.

"So, tell me, please, what did you say to the General?"

"Pete, that was a private conversation —"

"Oh come on, El, don't be like that! Pleeeeaaassseee?"

God, he was such a child. "Fine."

They had gone to dinner that night for the express purpose of telling Juan that Maria and Matty wanted to get married. The couple had known that there would be fallout, so they'd brought reinforcements: Anita to make sure things didn't get out of hand — as a mother, she had seen it coming long before they had and was ecstatic that they'd finally seen it, too; Eliot to convince Juan as needed; and Pete for "moral support", which really just meant he got to sit back and watch the fun.

Juan had been led to believe that this was just a normal dinner. The plan was to wait for a lull in conversation, and then Maria would bring up the engagement.

But everyone, including Eliot, had forgotten what day it was: nine months ago to the day, Eliot had attempted to kill Juan - or had saved his life, depending on who was talking.

"Eliot, you've saved my life twice now."

"Once," Eliot growled. "That Night doesn't count."

"Of course it counts! You could have killed me, but you didn't."

"Sir, that hardly counts as 'saving'. If I hadn't been there in the first place –"

"Oh for Pete's sake!"

The tension in the room spiked as everyone looked toward Maria. None of them had ever heard her speak that way to the General. She didn't look happy.

"Maria…" Anita began.

"Will the two of you just stop it?" Maria snapped, ignoring her mother. "This argument has been going on for nine months! Can't you just agree to disagree?"

"Yes," Pete begged. "For _Pete's_ sake, please."

Everyone chuckled, and the tension dissipated.

"Seriously," Pete said. "I have to live with him." He jerked his head in Eliot's direction, and Eliot rolled his eyes. "He won't shut up about it!" Then he turned to Eliot and said, "Can't you just agree that you saved his life twice, and move on?"

"Why should I agree to that? It's not true!" Eliot hated all the accolades he'd received for "saving" the General. He didn't deserve them.

"Uh, how about because he's the General?" More than a little annoyance colored Pete's voice. "How is it you're the only person that gets to actually _argue_ with the man! Just shut up and accept that you did a good thing – _two_ good things – and move on!"

He paused to catch his breath.

"Jeez, Pete, why don't you tell us how you really feel?" Matty said quietly, trying not to smirk.

The room laughed again, including Pete.

"Does it feel better to get that off your chest, darling?" Anita asked with a twinkle in her eye.

"Actually it does, thanks for asking!" Pete responded cheerfully.

Eliot honestly couldn't tell if Pete's outburst had been legitimate, or if he'd made it up to take the heat off of Maria. Either way, Maria jumped back in.

"Pete, you're absolutely right. But why can't the two of you just meet in the middle? Papa says two, Eliot says one. Can't we just make it one and a half and be done?"

Pete and Matty snorted and Juan rolled his eyes, but Eliot said, "I like the sound of that. One and a half. I'll give you one for the –"

"Non-Fatal Stabbing Incident," Matty said with a wink.

Eliot sighed and Pete groaned. It was Matty who had come up with that dumb name.

"Whatever." Eliot continued. "That's definitely one. But the first time counts as a half. You're right, it shouldn't count as nothing, but I don't think it counts as a whole, considering I was the one sent to kill you in the first place. So … once and a half." He smirked. "I like it."

Juan paused, took a sip of wine, and said, "I still say it's twice."

Everyone in the room groaned or rolled their eyes good-naturedly. Juan beamed.

Eliot looked at Maria. Now was the best time. She looked terrified, but Eliot gave her a wink and a nod for encouragement.

She took a deep breath and said, "Papa, there's something I'd like to tell you."

Juan looked a little confused, but not overly concerned. "You can tell me anything, Maria, what is it?"

The room held their breath as Maria blurted, "Matty and I are going to get married."

Juan froze, fork in mid-air. "What?" he said.

Maria took another deep breath and said, more calmly this time, "Matty and I are in love, and we've decided we want to get married."

Juan put down his fork, stunned. "Married? Maria, what are you talking about? You're only 16! And ... Matty?"

He looked at Matty, who met his gaze only briefly before he looked away. Eliot couldn't blame Matty; Juan was a second father, a boss, and a future father-in-law all rolled into one. He, more than anyone, had the most to lose tonight.

But Maria had that fire in her eyes again. Eliot smiled. She wasn't going down without a fight. "I'll be 17 in a few months, and yes. Matty." She grabbed Matty's hand and looked at him lovingly. "We've known for a while now, but neither of us had the guts to say anything. And then a month ago we finally got up the courage to tell each other, thanks to some help." She smiled at Eliot and Pete. "And now here we are. We love each other, and we don't think there's any reason to wait."

Juan glared at Eliot and Pete. "You knew about this?"

Eliot said, "Yes." Pete said nothing, but he looked Juan defiantly in the eyes until Juan turned on his wife.

"Did _you_ know about this?!"

"Of course I knew, Juan. It's been obvious ever since Berto died."

"Ever since — Berto —" He couldn't get the words out. Eliot knew trouble was coming.

"Absolutely not!" Juan yelled, standing up. "You are too young to get married, Maria, and you are certainly not getting married to _him! _No. No. Absolutely not. And I resent being ambushed like this!"

He stormed out, slamming the door to the dining room behind him.

Everyone sat in stunned silence for a second. Maria was nearly in tears; Matty looked devastated.

Pete turned to Eliot and mumbled, "You're up."

Eliot stood and looked around the room. Anita nodded at him encouragingly. He took a few deep breaths to relax himself, then followed Juan out the door.

_Oh boy, Spencer, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?_

He walked up the stairs to Juan's study and knocked to let Juan know someone was there, but he didn't wait for a response to enter.

God, he was shaking. He hadn't been this nervous since he'd talked to Willie about Aimee. _And that turned out well, didn't it?_ Although, to be fair, that wasn't exactly Willie's fault.

He walked in to see Juan fuming in the corner with a very large glass of scotch.

"Let me guess, you're here to talk some sense into me," Juan said without looking at Eliot. "Well I don't need to hear it from you or anyone else. She's too young."

"How old were you when you got married?" Eliot asked, knowing the answer.

"Irrelevant. Maria's still in school!"

"She'll be graduating in the spring. The wedding doesn't have to be before that. And if it is, what's a few months?"

"What about college? What about her future plans?"

"Did you ask her about that? Because I'm pretty sure she has answers ready for you, and they're answers you're going to like. She's not dropping out, and she's still planning to go to college. She just wants to get married now."

"Why can't she wait until she's older? She has plenty of time!"

"_She _does, yes," Eliot said quietly. "But I think we both know this isn't about how much time _she_ has."

Juan turned to face him. "What does that mean?"

"Of the two of them, which one is more likely to die young? She already lost her brother, Juan. She wants to make sure she has enough time to love her husband."

Juan sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. "Why Matty? Why couldn't she find someone not at all related to what we do?"

Eliot laughed. "That's not really an option for her. She's the daughter of General Juan Flores, war hero of San Lorenzo. Pretty much everyone she makes contact with is related to what we do. And anyway," he added, "it's not like she made a conscious choice to fall in love with Matty."

"That's another thing!" Juan snapped. "Matty and Berto were best friends! Maria's been like a sister to him! How could he do that to Berto?"

"Again, you're implying that he made a conscious choice to fall in love with his best friend's sister. Matty and Maria grew up together, Juan. There were two ways their relationship could have turned out. This is the second one."

"But, Berto! What would he think?"

Eliot smiled. This was his ace in the hole. The best part was, he didn't even have to make the argument; it was already made, he was just the messenger.

"He was all for it," Eliot said.

Juan looked at him mouth agape. "How can you possibly —"

"Apparently Matty told him how he felt about Maria a few weeks before — before he died." Eliot stumbled slightly, not sure how to broach the topic. "He said, and I quote, 'About damned time! Too much longer and I was going to have to stick you two in a stalled elevator!'"

"My wife and I met in a stalled elevator," Juan said. He smiled fondly, as if remembering.

"So I heard." Eliot smirked knowingly. "He was not only okay with it, he encouraged Matty to tell Maria as soon as possible. Apparently he was ecstatic about the idea of Matty officially becoming part of the family. When he was killed a few weeks later," he said, as Juan's eyes darkened, "Matty decided it wasn't the time. But he and Maria comforted each other through their grief, and then it turned into more." He paused. "Not only did he approve, but he actually facilitated it, in a way."

Juan placed both hands on his desk, bowed his head, and said vehemently, "He should be the one here talking to me, not you."

While Eliot knew Juan didn't mean it as an insult to him, the words still stung. "I know —" he said. "I'm just trying to ... I'm doing the best I can."

Juan looked at him and his eyes softened. "I'm sorry, Eliot. This can't be easy for you, either, stepping into this role." He paused thoughtfully. "For what it's worth, I'm grateful. Not just for what you've done for Maria, but for all of us ... For me," he added. "I can't imagine anyone else doing this. You really are —" He took a breath, then continued, "You really are the closest thing to a son I have left."

A lump formed in Eliot's throat, and he found it hard to swallow. He looked into Juan's eyes and nodded. He couldn't form words to say how he felt, but Juan seemed to understand.

"What about —" The words came out as a choking sound, and he had to clear his throat and start again. "What about Matty? You practically raised him along with Berto ... I'd think that he would be more like —"

"Matty is going to be my son-_in-law_, Eliot. There's a difference," Juan said sternly.

Eliot smiled. "Son-in-law, huh?"

Juan smiled, obviously aware that he'd just surrendered. He shook his head. "Get him in here. I want to talk to him." As Eliot turned to leave, he said with a twinkle in his eye, "And keep your poker face on, Spencer. I want to see him squirm."

"…And then I came out to get Matty," Eliot finished telling Pete. He took a swig of his beer and looked at the clock. It was getting late. "See? Nothing big." He shrugged.

"Nothing big?" Pete scoffed. "Uh, the General pretty much just called you his son, El, that seems kinda big to me." Then he smiled mischievously. "And you got all teary-eyed when you were telling it. Aw, you're such a softy!"

Eliot rolled his eyes. "Whatever. You happy now?"

"Yes, very. I'm gonna have great stories to tell at the wedding!"

Eliot raised an eyebrow. "About the groom, right?"

Pete's eyes twinkled. "Of course, the groom, right ..." He winked.

Then his smile faded, and his eyes filled with pain again. He tried to cover it up with a chuckle. "Weddings, huh? That'll be fun ..." His voice broke on the word "fun".

Eliot scowled as a familiar rage coursed through him. It wasn't long after the Non-Fatal Stabbing Incident that Pete had told him what had happened to him, but Eliot almost wished he didn't know. Now that he did, his heart broke every time he saw the pain in Pete's eyes.

Pete had come from a small town in San Lorenzo. His parents had died when he was young; he'd struggled growing up, but he was smart and had made plans to go to law school. He'd fallen in love with Sarah, a girl from his town, and they had gotten engaged.

But Sarah's father had owed Moreau money. Just before Eliot joined Moreau, when Chapman was temporarily in charge, Moreau had ordered her parents killed. Sarah had apparently come home in the middle of everything and tried to fight off Moreau's men. As a result, they had beaten and brutally raped her with anything and everything available in the room. Pete had arrived after Chapman and the men had left, but he was too late. He'd found Sarah in the living room, barely alive, and held her in his arms as she died. The day after he buried her, he'd joined the service to help in the fight against Moreau.

Eliot heard a clink and a crunch. He looked down to see a broken beer bottle in his hand.

"Whoa, there, Bruce Banner." Pete reached to clean up the spilled beer. "You cut yourself?"

"I'm fine," Eliot mumbled. "Who the hell is Bruce Banner?"

"Seriously?" Pete looked at him in disbelief. "Bruce Banner? The Hulk?"

Eliot shook his head in confusion.

"Jesus, El, didn't you ever read comic books growing up? There's something wrong with you!"

Eliot smiled inwardly. Of course he knew who Bruce Banner was. Even if he hadn't read a few of the comics growing up, it certainly wasn't the first time someone had referred to him as the Hulk. But the distraction pushed the pain from Pete's eyes, at least temporarily.

"Hang on a sec, I'll be right back," Eliot said. He ran up to his and Pete's room — in the same building, one floor up — and came back with a bottle of booze. "Here," he said, pouring two glasses and shoving one into Pete's hand. "Something a bit stronger. Some nice Kentucky bourbon!"

Pete laughed and took the glass. "Isn't that where you're from in America? Kentucky, or Oklahoma, or Texas, or something?"

"Or something," Eliot smiled. "To Matty and Maria. And to us — matchmakers!"

Pete forced a smile that didn't reach to his eyes. "Damn right," he toasted, and tossed the drink back in one gulp. Then he reached for the bottle and poured himself a second and then a third, tossing them back in quick succession.

"Okay, you might wanna slow down there, buddy," Eliot said, starting to regret bringing the bottle down. "That stuff's pretty strong."

"That's kinda the point," Pete slurred slightly as he went to pour himself a fourth one.

"Listen," Eliot said, taking the bottle. "If you don't want to be in the wedding, Matty will understand. Just tell him."

"And ruin it for him? No, not over my little problem." Pete snatched the bottle from Eliot and poured another drink.

"It's not a little problem, Pete," Eliot murmured.

Pete shrugged. "I'll be fine. There'll be lots of booze there, right?" He forced a smile, but it was pained.

"You think Juan Flores is going to throw a party and skimp on the booze?" Eliot smirked. "Alright, tell you what. I'm gonna talk to Maria and get her to invite all her hot friends from school — that are of age," he added quickly, "and you and me are gonna play the field at the wedding and we're gonna get you laid. Sound like a plan?"

Pete shook his head slowly. "I dunno, El, I'm not like you, you know? One night stands aren't really my thing."

"Maybe they should be," Eliot said. "At least for the wedding."

"No, El ... I mean ..." Pete blushed, and not because of the alcohol. "Sarah and I, we never ... we were gonna wait until ..."

_Jesus ..._ Eliot heard another clink, and looked down to find his glass of bourbon had exploded in his hand, too.

"Okay, you know what, enough for you," Pete said. "Now you're just wasting it." He paused, looking deeply interested in his still full glass. "Thank you, though," he said softly.

Eliot frowned. "For what? Wasting the bourbon?"

"No, for ..." Pete sighed. "For just being pissed." He looked up at Eliot. "Most people, they hear what happened, and they just look at me awkwardly, like I'm something to be pitied. But you…" He smiled. "…you just get pissed. And then you try to make me laugh or change the subject. It's kind of adorable, you think I don't notice." He paused, and the smile faded. "But it's nice to know I have someone in my corner, you know?"

"I'm always in your corner, Pete." Eliot grinned. "I got your back."

.

.

.

As Eliot pulled into the driveway, he checked the address against Juan's text. This was it.

The little cottage was off the beaten path, out in the middle of nowhere. A perfect safe house.

He took a couple of deep breaths as he walked up to the door.

_They haven't seen me in eight years. What'll they do?_

He took a final deep breath and knocked.


	10. Chapter 10

_Thank you to everyone for reading, and to all those who left such nice reviews! And a special shoutout to quirkapotamus, who helped to make the Eliot/Hardison conversation much more believable and satisfying. Enjoy!_

.

.

Chapter 10

When Eliot arrived at Vittori's campaign headquarters the next morning, Nate was waiting.

"Well? Where is he? You said he was coming back with you."

"He had to take care of some things first," Eliot said. "He'll be here later this morning."

"Alright," Nate said. "Go see Parker and Hardison. I need you guys to start on those other plans."

Eliot entered the back room he and Nate had spoken in yesterday. Hardison had turned it into a full-blown election center, with screens showing local news stations, poll numbers, and who knows what else. Hardison was sitting at the conference table and Parker was standing, but they were deep in discussion over something.

"I told you, Parker, her name is Gigabyte, since she's a thousand times cuter than my dog Megabyte," Hardison was saying. Then he cooed in a baby voice, "Isn't that right? You're so adorable, yes you are!"

Eliot heard a bark, and Parker said, "No, you can't name her, because she already has a name. It's Sparky." Another bark. "See, she likes it!"

"What the hell is going on?" Eliot said as he walked into the room, closing the door behind him.

Parker skipped over to him, carrying a brown-black puppy. "Here," she said. "This is Sparky —"

"Gigabyte!" Hardison interjected.

"Sparky," Parker continued. "And you have to take her with you to do the news story."

"A news story? With a puppy? What the …?" Eliot asked, perplexed.

"Yup," Parker chirped. "Hardison has a script. It's about dog-fighting in the courtyard of the presidential palace, and you get to talk about Sparky here." She tried to shove the puppy into Eliot's hands, but he wouldn't take it.

"Why do I have to do it? You like her, you do the story."

"Sophie says it has to be you because hot men with puppies attract more attention," Parker said matter-of-factly, placing the puppy on the floor.

"W-what?"

Hardison chuckled.

"Yeah." Parker became suddenly animated, using different voices for Nate and Sophie in the conversation. "Yeah, Sophie said, 'If Eliot does it, more people will watch, because women love hot men holding puppies,' and Nate was like, 'Really? Eliot? I didn't think you were into that sort of thing.' And Sophie said, 'What sort of thing, Nate? Eliot is objectively a very attractive man,' and Nate said, 'You know, like muscles and that Southern gentleman crap,' and Sophie got all huffy and said, 'Nate, I am attracted to all different types of men, and just because you —'"

"T-that's enough, Parker," Eliot stuttered, eyes wide with horror. He did _not_ need to be hearing how that conversation finished.

Hardison, hard at work typing on his laptop, said bitterly, "Yeah, Parker, I don't really think Eliot needs to hear how attractive he is. I'm sure he hears about it all the time."

Eliot opened his mouth to say something snarky to the hacker, but changed his mind. Hardison was still upset with him about the pool — and he had every right to be — and Eliot needed to be making things right, not aggravating the situation.

Parker said, "Uh, I think Sparky needs to go outside ..."

"Gigabyte," Hardison corrected without looking up from his laptop. "And what makes you say that?"

"Because she's starting to poop on the floor."

"Dammit, Parker, take it outside!" Eliot yelled, and Hardison said, "That's nasty! Woman, take her out to do her business!"

Parker scooped the puppy into her arms and jumped out the window.

"Wha — Parker!" Eliot said, running to the window. Just as he got there, he heard Hardison say, "There's a fire escape there. That's how she came in."

"That girl is crazy!" Eliot said. "Normal people use doors, not windows!" He turned to Hardison, expecting the hacker to agree with him, as he usually did when Parker did something particularly Parker-ish, but Hardison didn't say anything. He just kept typing.

Eliot sighed. _If you're waiting for the right moment, Spencer, now's the time._ He walked over to where Hardison was sitting and watched him, trying to figure out how to start.

"Hey, Hardison, listen ..."

"Eliot," Hardison said coolly, "I have a lot of work to do, so I don't really have time to talk. Like, at all. And I think you have women to woo by holding a puppy on national television, so ..."

Eliot closed the laptop. Hardison yelped and jerked his hands away. All the screens went off.

"What the hell, man? I got a lot of stuff to finish before the debate tonight —"

"Hardison, we need to talk." Eliot's heart was pounding.

Hardison sat back in his chair, arms folded, and said, "Fine. Talk. I don't have anything to say."

Eliot looked at him. Hardison's eyes were bright with anger, and Eliot flinched inside. He stared at the hacker. He had no idea what to say.

Hardison rolled his eyes and went to open his laptop. "Right, great talk, there, man. Glad you showed up."

But Eliot kept his hand on the computer. "I ... "

He couldn't say anything. He didn't know _how_.

Hardison met Eliot's gaze and wouldn't look away. His eyes grew wider and angrier the longer the silence stretched on, until he looked like he was going to explode.

Then he did.

"Are you fucking serious?" Hardison yelled. He stood up so quickly his chair flipped backwards. "You can't say it, can you? You seriously have _nothing_ to say?"

Eliot's eyes widened momentarily, but then narrowed as his brow furrowed into a deep scowl. His fists clenched; so did his jaw.

"Dammit, Hardison," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm trying …"

"No — dammit, Eliot! You're trying to what? Hmm? You can't even say the word!"

"Apologize!" Eliot snapped. "I'm trying to fucking apologize!"

"Then do it. I'm waiting." Hardison stood with arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

Eliot took a deep breath. "Hardison, I — At the hotel, with Moreau ... you need to understand that I would never have let anything happen to you."

"Wha — I'm sorry, _I _need to understand? Are you fucking kidding me? No, I do _not _understand! My best friend led me into the lion's den knowing full well what we'd be up against. He stood by and watched as his former BFF boss pushed me, handcuffed to a chair, into a pool. He didn't even flinch. And when I got out, he hadn't moved! Just made that deal with Moreau like it was nothing! I almost _died_, Eliot_. _I had to suck the air out of the chair because you _didn't_ try to save me! So don't tell me that you would never let anything happen to me, because you _did_!"

A strong wave of nausea washed over Eliot, nearly making him double over. He had always prided himself in one thing: his loyalty to his friends. When he let Hardison struggle at the bottom of the pool, he hadn't just conned Moreau … he had betrayed his best friend. And he hadn't even explained himself. Hardison had no idea the agony Eliot had been in, hearing him splash in panic; how Eliot had counted the seconds, had known exactly how much air Hardison had left, had been prepared to sacrifice himself and the whole damned con to dive into the pool if Moreau's negotiation went one second too long … Why in the hell hadn't he told him that?

"Hardison —"

"When we got in the elevator, you said, 'Stick close to me. This might get messy.'" Hardison said quietly. "Did you know what Moreau would do?"

Eliot looked away. This was the hard part. "Yes," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not exactly what, but ... yes. That's how he does things."

"You're a bastard," Hardison spat, and Eliot flinched. He'd never heard such hate in the hacker's voice.

"Hardison, I didn't have a choice. We had to figure out a way to get into the auction. I knew what Moreau might do, but there was no other way. If I had dived in after you, Moreau would have known something was up, and the con would have been blown."

"Which con? The con on Moreau or the con on us?" Hardison asked. "You're a lot of things, Eliot, but I never expected you to be a fucking hypocrite."

"What?! Hardison, I — "

"You what? You act all high and mighty and get angry when Sophie cons the team to get the Davids. Then, a year later, Nate does the same thing and ends up in prison, and you're pissed at him, too. And now you have the balls to lie to us about your past and walk me into a situation, to risk _my_ life, without telling us the dangers? You're worse than either Nate or Sophie. We could have all been killed."

"We could have all been killed the second that Italian bitch made us start going after Moreau!" Eliot nearly shouted. Hardison jumped back. "There was a difference between what Sophie did and what I did. I was trying to protect the team! I was trying to figure out a way where we didn't have to take down Moreau! Moreau shreds anything and everything that comes into his path! It's my job to make sure the team stays safe, and that's what I was trying to do!"

"Well you sure have a funny way of keeping us safe, taking me in there like that."

"What in the hell was I supposed to do, Hardison? The deadline had moved up, we had to hit Moreau that day. I did the best I could — I used my past with Moreau to get us into the room with him. I needed a client, and he needed to think that you were _just_ a client. You heard him. He said, 'You work alone'. That's what he knew about me. If he had even an inkling that something was different, that I wasn't who or what I said, we were both dead. And then he would have gone after the team. And then he would have sold the bomb to the highest bidder and thousands or maybe millions of people would have died. I was not about to let that happen."

He continued more softly. "Hardison, I would never have let you drown. I need you to believe that. I knew exactly how much air you had left, how many seconds I had to talk with Moreau. And if I couldn't get it done, I was going to dive in and get you, Moreau be damned. I would have gotten you out of there if it was the last thing I did."

He dropped his gaze and murmured, "And it probably would have been."

Eliot couldn't decipher the look in Hardison's eyes, but he seemed to be processing what he'd heard. After what seemed like an eternity, Hardison asked, "Why didn't you just tell us?"

That was the hardest question to answer, because Eliot didn't have one. "I don't know ..."

"Bullshit," Hardison said. "You made a choice not to tell us. Why?"

"Because I didn't know how!" Eliot snapped. He looked at the floor and whispered, "I thought if I could figure out a way around it, maybe I wouldn't have to."

Hardison sighed. "Eliot, did you really think we didn't know? You hurt people for a living. You used to be a bad guy. Guns and knives and fighting stances are very distinctive to you. It's not rocket science to put two and two together."

Eliot's fists clenched. "No, Hardison, you don't know. You have no idea the things that I've done… the things that I did for —"

"You used to torture and kill people for money. Am I close?"

Eliot flinched at Hardison's words, and not just because of the brusqueness with which they were said. They stung because Hardison was more than just close. He nailed it. Eliot shut his eyes, and he kept them closed. He couldn't look at his friend.

"E," Hardison said softly, "Sophie's right. You don't have to tell us what you've done. Hell, I don't want to know. But don't think for a second that we're naive enough to believe that you were a fucking Boy Scout. You just told me that you knew exactly how much air I had left. Lemme guess — it's because you've done that sort of thing before? Probably for Moreau?"

Eliot turned away, his eyes still closed. _That and much, much worse._

"Eliot." The hacker touched his arm, and he flinched violently.

"Eliot." Hardison's voice was gentle. "What hurts the most is that you didn't trust us. Did you honestly think it would change anything?"

Eliot didn't answer. He couldn't. If he said it out loud, he'd be admitting that it was true.

Hardison sighed. "You really are an idiot, man." His voice sounded annoyed, almost normal.

Surprised, Eliot turned to look at him. Hardison was smirking.

"You just mentioned that Moreau said, 'You work alone.' But you neglected to mention what _you _said in response. I remember. You said, 'Things change.' Well you know what, they do. You don't work alone anymore, man. We're a team." He paused. "We're a little more than a team," he added, almost to himself. "And if you think that anything from your past could change that, then you're an idiot. I get that you didn't want to tell us what you used to do, or give us the details. But you should have told us about Moreau. We would have been more prepared, and so would you."

Eliot didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. He knew Hardison would talk again to fill the void.

And it only took a few seconds. "E, you have saved my life I don't know how many times. More than twice, that's for damned sure." He chuckled. "And you're a good person. I've seen you. Not just with the team, but with other, normal people. And with kids." He paused. "Don't think I haven't seen you interact with kids on our jobs. Remember that hospital job? I know you stepped in to make sure that kid wasn't gonna be abused anymore. And the little girl who was arrested for smuggling artifacts for Keller? You talked to her in some foreign language and made her smile." He grinned. "_That's_ the Eliot Spencer I know. _That's_ the Eliot Spencer that got handcuffed to me in the woods and kept us alive. That's my best friend, and I honestly don't give a damn what he used to do, because he's not that man anymore."

The warmth that Eliot had felt during Hardison's speech turned to ice as Hardison spoke the last phrase. _I _am _still that man ._

"Hardison," he choked, voice filled with emotion. He needed to tell someone, and maybe Hardison would understand ...

All of a sudden Hardison embraced him, tightly. Eliot shut his eyes and let his head fall onto Hardison's shoulder as he hugged his friend back. It had a calming effect; his breathing steadied and his heartbeat slowed. The icy feeling thawed, and he relaxed. He didn't ruin it by telling Hardison about the warehouse. That could wait. He just let himself be held by his friend.

"Okay, this is the longest you've ever let me hug you, man," Hardison said as he pulled away. "I'm gonna stop before you realize what's happening."

Eliot smiled at his friend. Then he looked him in the eyes again and said, "I'm sorry, Hardison. I should have told you all before we went to D.C. I'm —"

"I think maybe you should stop," Hardison grinned, holding up a hand. "I only get a few Spencer apologies each decade, and I don't want you using them all up at once." He paused, then he said seriously, "There's just one more question I have: why me?"

"What?"

"You chose to take me to the hotel with you. Why? Why not Parker or Sophie or even Nate? We all know I'm a terrible grafter." He smirked.

Eliot paused. He owed Hardison the truth. "It couldn't be Nate for obvious reasons. And Parker and Sophie ..." He felt the bile rise in his throat. "Moreau and his men treat women ... differently. You they threw into the pool ... I wasn't sure what they'd do to Parker or Sophie, but I sure as hell didn't want to find out."

Hardison's eyes widened in horrified understanding. After a pause, he said, "If you had told me that from the beginning, I would have gladly almost drowned in that pool."

Eliot smiled sadly. "Yes, you would have." _You're a good person, Hardison._ "But I didn't want you to have to worry about that. Better to be pissed at me than imagine ... that."

Hardison gave a small smile, but it suddenly faded as he righted his chair and sat back down. He fiddled with his hands, as if he was trying to figure something out.

"Eliot," he whispered. His eyes were filled with a fear that ripped Eliot's heart in two. "What — what'll Moreau do, if we fail?"

Eliot gripped the table so hard his knuckles turned white. That was exactly the thing he'd been trying not to think about since they'd arrived in San Lorenzo.

"Nothing," he rasped, "Because we won't fail. And even if we do ... I'd never let that happen … I'd never let him …" _I'd kill you before he could do anything. And it would be the last thing I ever did._ The bile rose in his throat at the thought, and he felt tears sting his eyes. He had to take several seconds to regain control. "I know you probably still don't trust me right now, but believe me when I tell you I will never let Moreau touch _any_ of you."

"Any of _us_, Eliot," Hardison corrected softly.

_No, any of you._

He smiled and said, "Exactly. High five. For morale."

Hardison smirked and they high-fived, just as Parker climbed through the window again, holding the puppy.

"Oh good," she said. "Are you guys better now? Because I waited outside for like half an hour, but Sparky was getting tired of it, so that's why I came back."

Hardison smiled. "Yeah, mama, we're good. Though you didn't have to wait outside, you could've —"

"Man, I'm starving!" Parker said, ignoring Hardison's comments. She shoved Sparky/Gigabyte into Eliot's hands and said, "I really want some pretzels."

Hardison started to say something, but he didn't get the chance before she said, "I'm gonna go get some. See you guys later," and skipped out the window again.

Hardison frowned. "Okay, wrong 'pretzels'."

Eliot shuddered, thinking of the balcony. "Come up with a better code word, alright? I don't think I'll be able to eat pretzels again without thinking of your kinky ..." He shuddered again.

Hardison cocked an eyebrow. "Kinky ... ? What the hell are you talking about?"

"I heard you guys on the balcony the other night, talking about being out of breath and motion sensors and _wiggling _..."

The hacker's jaw dropped. "What the hell, man? You shouldn't have been eavesdropping —"

His eyes suddenly grew wide as he took in the rest of what Eliot had said. "Wait, you thought ... ?" Eliot could have sworn the hacker actually blushed. Hardison looked sheepish and said, "Nah, we didn't ... we haven't ..."

For a second Eliot saw Pete sitting there, talking about Sarah; a second later Hardison was back, stuttering and not meeting Eliot's eyes.

"If you haven't ... then what the hell does 'pretzels' mean?" Eliot asked.

Hardison sighed. "You're gonna think it's stupid ..."

"Hardison, I'm holding a puppy right now, and soon I'm gonna be on national television with it. Stupid is pretty relative."

Hardison chuckled awkwardly. "Well, remember that job we did at the pharmaceutical company?"

"The client who literally ran into us on the street?" Eliot said. "Yeah, I remember."

"Well, she was, you know ..."

"Flirting with you like crazy? Yeah, I noticed." Eliot smirked.

"Really? Oh ... yeah, well apparently Parker wasn't too happy about that, and she —"

"Got insanely jealous? Yeah, caught that, too." Eliot's smirk grew wider.

"Jeez, really? Was it that obvious? Man, why didn't you say anything?"

"Why would I? It's none of my damned business. Plus, Sophie's usually got that crap more than covered."

Hardison rolled his eyes. "Yeah, she did with this, too. Parker had apparently been talking to her and when I came up she did her way-too-obvious-for-a-professional-grifter exit. I asked Parker what was wrong, and she told me she was starting to have feelings for ... pretzels, because there was a bowl in front of us on the bar. So I told her, 'They're here, when you're ready'."

Eliot smiled. "That's pretty smooth, Hardison." Hardison grinned like that was the biggest compliment he'd ever gotten, and Eliot was once again reminded of Pete. He pushed the memories away. "So I'm assuming she told you she wants pretzels now?"

"Yeah, after we blew up the bomb and we were on that whole we-just-saved-the-world high, she turned to me and said, 'You know what I'm in the mood for? Pretzels!'"

Eliot frowned. "So what the hell does that mean if it's not sex?"

Hardison smiled as he shrugged. "It means whatever Parker wants it to mean. I'm just glad pretzels are on the menu, you know?"

"So why in the hell were you guys all outta breath on the balcony the other night? She was talking about motion sensors and things being just as fun as stealing ..."

Hardison laughed. "_That?_ I guess that would sound like sex if you didn't know what we were talking about. She wanted to see the city, but Nate said no stealing, so I went with her to keep an eye on her. Apparently it's not just the stealing that gives her the high, it's the getting in and out undetected. So we went to the museum and just looked at the art and kinda snuck around. She made us hide in a blind spot for too long, and I got itchy and started wiggling. We set off the motion sensors and had to high-tail it outta there. It was fun, though."

"First date?" Eliot asked. "Did you kiss her at the end?"

Hardison looked embarrassed again. "Nah, I don't think she's ready for that yet ..."

"Yeah, probably not." There was an awkward pause as Eliot thought about how stupid he'd been to think that Hardison and Parker's relationship had already progressed to sex. Hardison blushed just thinking about kissing her.

The wriggling puppy in his hands brought him back to the present. "Okay, well, I guess I have to give an interview on dog-fighting ... while holding a puppy." He looked down at the dog. She _was_ adorable.

Hardison sighed dramatically. "Yeah, man, I'm really sorry about that. You know, Sophie wanted me to do it originally — hot men and puppies and all that —" He grinned. "But, you know, I'm busy with the campaign and stuff, so I need to stay here. So you're the next best thing, I guess."

Eliot rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh. Anything else I need to know?"

Hardison turned back to his computer and the screens lit up again. "It'll be right outside the presidential palace. Just look for the news crews."

"Thanks," Eliot said. He turned to leave, but paused. "Oh, and Hardison?"

"Yeah?" He was back to typing.

"If you break her heart, I'll break every single bone in your body."

Hardison looked up and grinned. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

.

.

.

Eliot smiled as he returned to campaign HQ with the puppy. Sophie was definitely right: puppies and babies were the biggest chick magnets.

He walked into the back room to see the whole team watching the screens filled with his interview, and Hardison saying, "Oh man, this is my favorite part!" and playing the video again.

"... puppies as young as this one right here." Eliot was saying on the screen. "This adorable little thing right here. Hi." On-screen Eliot kissed the puppy.

Hardison clapped his hands together in excitement and turned to Eliot. "Man, that was inspired — so much blackmail material! And Gigabyte played her part perfectly."

"Sparky," Parker corrected as she swiped the dog from Eliot's arms.

"I dunno, I think she looks more like an Emma, don't you?" Eliot asked. Just to annoy them, of course — he had definitely _not _been thinking about a name for the puppy on his way back. Absolutely not.

Both Hardison and Parker looked horrified at the suggestion. Sophie beamed at him, and Nate gave him one of the grins that always made Eliot want to punch him.

"So man, how many women hit on you on your way back?" Hardison asked with a smirk.

"Seven," Eliot grinned. "Including the reporter."

Sophie turned to Nate and said, "Told you. Attractive men and puppies." As she turned back to smile at him again, Eliot suddenly felt very uncomfortable, remembering Parker's version of their conversation.

"This is a hit, Nate," Hardison said. "It's already up on YouTube and it's gone viral. Retweets, shares, likes, already several hundred thousand views ... Hold on ..."

"What?" Nate asked, and Eliot saw a brief flash of worry cross his face.

"Huh," Hardison said. "There's another interview that's even more popular than Eliot's, but I don't know who this woman is."

A video began playing on the screen. In it a woman was saying, "My father is currently being imprisoned for trying to bring democracy back to San Lorenzo. I, for one, will not let Ribera win this easily. My father greatly admires Michael Vittori, and I know he would want all of his supporters to vote for this great man. For those of you who are still undecided, I encourage you to watch the debate tonight. It will be enlightening."

Maria Flores was several years older and nine months pregnant, but her eyes sparkled with a fire Eliot knew well.

"Who the hell is this?" Nate demanded.

"That, Mr. Ford," said a smiling voice from the doorway, "would be my wife."


	11. Chapter 11

_Thank you to everyone who continues to read and review! I'm excited that everyone seems to be enjoying this story as much as I am. Special thanks again to quirkapotamus for her constant support and suggestions. If you aren't already, go read her fic, The French Kiss Job — it's a fun one!_

_This chapter was a doozy to write, so I hope you all enjoy! Thanks again!_

_._

_._

Chapter 11

"That, Mr. Ford, would be my wife." Mateo Ramirez, dashing as always, leaned lazily against the door frame with a devilish grin on his face.

Eliot rolled his eyes. Matty always did have a flair for the dramatic.

"C'mon, El, aren't you gonna introduce me to your new friends?" Matty asked as he pushed off the door frame and entered the room.

"Guys, this is Matty Ramirez. He's the General's son-in-law."

Sophie approached first and held out her hand. "It's lovely to meet you. I'm —"

"Rebecca Ibanez," Matty said, winking. "How nice to finally meet you! Michael's told us so much about you! You've known each other how long again? A few years, right?"

He flashed his dashing smile and dropped the act. "If you're the one who's been coaching him, you must be the best around. I've never seen him talk in public … well, ever."

Sophie, always vulnerable to flattery when it came to her craft, smiled demurely and — Eliot realized with increasing alarm — flirtatiously. He recalled the puppy conversation as he watched the grifter look Matty up and down with a discerning and admiring eye.

He cleared his throat loudly. "You done sucking up, Matty? This is Hardison and Parker" — they shook hands — "and this is —"

"Nate Ford," Matty said, shaking Nate's hand firmly. "Juan told me you'd be coming to help us out. Tell me —" He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "How'd you get this one to come around and start to play nice with others?" He jerked his head in Eliot's direction.

Matty was obviously fishing — Eliot had refused to answer his inquiries during their brief conversation the previous day — but there were more important things to discuss right now.

"If you're done making jokes, Matty, maybe you can tell me why you're letting your nine-month-pregnant wife out of hiding to do interviews about the election."

"Okay, first of all, nobody 'lets' Maria do anything, let's get that straight," Matty said. "And second ... because that's what you asked me yesterday when you came to my house for the first time in eight years?"

Eliot tried to ignore the looks on the faces of his teammates — he'd never told them just how long it had been since he'd last set foot in San Lorenzo. "No, I said I needed the General's next in line to start rallying the troops."

Nate chuckled. "I think you may have been mistaken about exactly who the next in line is, Eliot."

Eliot's eyes widened as he processed what Nate's words. "You're saying Maria … ?"

Matty laughed. "Of course it's Maria, why else did you come to me yesterday?" His smile faded as his eyes widened in realization. "Wait, you thought it was me? El, I'm a soldier, not a politician."

Eliot cocked an eyebrow. "Just like your old man, huh?"

Matty beamed at the compliment. His father, General Ramirez, had been childhood friends with General Flores. They'd enlisted back during the war for independence, risen through the ranks together, and been promoted to the rank of general at the same time. But, while General Flores was more of a political, rally-the-troops military leader — hence his recent presidential campaign, Eliot remembered with a pang — General Ramirez had been a soldier through-and-through. He'd loved strategy and insisted on joining his men on the front lines. When Moreau came to power, Generals Flores and Ramirez had led the fight against him together; but General Ramirez had been killed in one of the first firefights with Moreau. His wife, Matty's mother, had died of grief a few months later. Matty was eleven.

"So you a general yet?" Eliot crossed his arms as he nodded in Matty's direction.

"Nope. Still a colonel. Going on five years now."

"Five years? What the hell are they waiting on?"

Matty smiled grimly. "Only the president can appoint generals. And thanks to my father-in-law and my wife, Ribera knows exactly whose side I'm on. His generals are all bullshit political appointees with no real military experience. They wouldn't know military action if it showed up at one of their political rallies and tried to assassinate their leader. Which it did." He rubbed his shoulder absently. "You'd think taking a bullet for the son-of-a-bitch would have earned me something."

Eliot's stomach did a flip. Why hadn't he heard that Matty had been shot?

"Didn't you get a medal?" Parker asked, eyes sparkling as they always did when she thought of shiny things.

Matty's laugh was bitter. "Oh, there was a medal awarded, all right. To one of those political generals who cowered while I saved their president from assassination." He sighed. "Imagine waking up in the hospital to your wife ranting and raving, not at Moreau, not at Ribera, but at _you_." Eliot smiled as Matty fell into an uncanny impression of Maria. "'You should never have risked your life for that bastard! You should have let him get killed. It would have been better for our country! How could you have been so stupid?' Like I thought about the political ramifications in the split second I had to move … It's my job to protect people, especially the president, no matter who the hell he is … And it's not like —"

He stopped, as if suddenly remembering people were there. "Anyway, yeah. No medal, no promotion. Too politically charged. There's no way he's going to promote the husband of Maria Flores."

Eliot's eyes widened, and Matty laughed. "Yeah, don't mention it to her. It's a touchy subject."

"What is, you getting shot, or her being the reason you haven't been promoted?"

"Both. In fact, better pretend this conversation never happened, otherwise I'll be in deep shit." Matty's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"That's because it's bullshit, Matty!" Eliot couldn't keep the anger out of his voice. "You're a damned good soldier. And you took a bullet for Ribera? You should have been promoted when Juan retired!"

"Well, I'm definitely not Juan." Matty paused. "But, I have to say, coming from you … I'm flattered."

They looked at each other in silence for a second, and Eliot felt a little overwhelmed by how much time had passed since he'd last been to San Lorenzo. Then Matty said, "Damn, it's good to see you again, El," and he embraced Eliot.

Eliot was filled with a mixture of surprise and embarrassment — fully aware that the team was watching with intense curiosity — but he returned the hug. He hadn't realized until just now how much he'd missed Matty.

"Well, you definitely married into the Flores family's affinity for hugging," he chuckled.

Matty laughed as he pulled away. "That I did. It's a little difficult to avoid."

Eliot frowned. "I don't get it, Matty. You're the natural choice to succeed Juan."

"Definitely the natural choice, considering I saved the life of the man who represents everything wrong in San Lorenzo." Matty smirked. "You do know the point is to get him _out_ of office, right?"

"But … Maria?"

"Of course Maria, El, look at her, she's amazing." Matty turned to look at the screen where his wife was paused mid-interview, smiling in pride and admiration.

Sophie crossed her arms, and when she spoke, her voice was cold. "Why exactly did you think it would be Matty and not Maria, Eliot? Is it because she's a woman?"

"Yeah!" Parker said. "Don't you know women can be generals too?"

Everyone looked at Parker, and Hardison said, "Uh, mama, she's not a general, she's just the next person in line to be a leader of San Lorenzo. Matty's the one that's supposed to be a general."

Parker spoke to Hardison as if he was a small child. "Yeah, but her father's the General, and when she takes over she'll be the General, too."

Hardison shook his head and gave up, turning on Eliot instead. "Seriously, though, man, that is kinda sexist."

"Sexist?!" Eliot sputtered. "It's not — I don't —"

Matty was grinning. "How did you do that?" he asked Hardison.

Hardison grinned back. "What, make him sputter like that?" He shrugged. "It's a gift."

"Yeah," Parker piped up. "You should see how red his face gets when he says 'Dammit, Hardison!'"

Eliot felt himself flush as he said reflexively, "Dammit, Hardison!" This situation was surreal. Two of his worlds had just collided, and he couldn't wrap his head around it.

Matty just laughed, and then he turned to Hardison, said "Nice!" and they _high-fived_.

"I like your new friends, El," Matty said with a grin.

"Matty, I'm serious about this!" Eliot sputtered.

The smile left Matty's face, and he crossed his arms in mock seriousness. "So am I," he said. But he couldn't keep a straight face as he asked, "What were we talking about again?"

Parker and Hardison burst into laughter. Sophie smiled, and Nate had that grin on his face again.

"Maria, Matty! What the hell is this? When I left she was just a kid! She had nothing to do with anything political. You were the one who was serving under the General! She didn't want anything to do with it!"

Matty's expression darkened. "You're right. When you left she was a 17-year-old girl who'd just gotten married. But that changed, El. She changed when you left ... She changed _because_ you left."

Eliot was stunned. "What the hell does that mean?"

Matty sighed. "El, she lost her brother. He went on a mission one day and never came back." He closed his eyes as he paused; Berto had been his best friend growing up. Matty had lost a lot of friends, Eliot remembered as a pang shot through his heart. "She was heart-broken when he died, and then she found you to confide in, and me to love. And she was happy. But then you left. We got married, and went to Paris for two weeks, and when we got back, you were just ... gone." His eyes flashed with sudden anger. "You didn't even say goodbye."

"Matty, I _had_ to leave ... didn't Juan ... ?" Eliot said. It physically pained him to think that he might have hurt Maria or Matty.

"Yes, he told us," Matty said darkly, "but that didn't change anything. It broke her heart, El. She lost another brother."

Eliot could barely breathe.

"So she decided enough was enough," Matty continued. "She wasn't going to let Moreau take away anyone else she loved. She became politically active, in parallel to what Juan and I were doing. She railed against Moreau, Ribera, and everyone in between who might have anything to do with keeping San Lorenzo from being a true democracy. And the people listened." He looked at the screen again, his eyes filled with love and admiration. "She loves them, and they love her."

"You just left?" They all turned to see Parker, eyes brimming with tears of accusation and betrayal. "You didn't even say goodbye? You just abandoned them? Why?"

Eliot's voice shook when he spoke. "Parker, I had to leave."

"Why?" she said again, more darkly this time. Her eyes flashed with anger.

"Because I didn't have a choice, Parker." She needed to understand. He would never hurt her or Maria or any of them unless there was absolutely no other choice.

So he took a deep breath, and he told them.

.

.

.

Eliot was sitting at the bar trying to ignore the music and dancing and happiness going on around him. It was difficult. So he poured himself another glass from the bottle of Jack Daniels he'd told the bartender to leave and knocked it back.

When Maria and Matty had asked him to be best man, he'd initially said no. "Maybe you don't need one," he'd said. Matty had walked away, hurt and still numb, but Maria had stayed. She'd insisted, she'd begged, she'd cried. "Please, Eliot, do this for me. Matty doesn't have anyone now." And so he'd agreed, for Matty and Maria's sake, even though he'd known how painful it would be for himself.

He'd put on the damned tux that he shouldn't have been wearing. He'd stood by Matty as Maria walked down the aisle, looking radiant. That was the one point where he'd forgotten, for a second, everything else and was just happy for them.

But that was over quickly. He'd made the damned toasts that weren't his. He'd pasted on his fake smile and danced with Maria and told her how happy he was for her and Matty. He'd even danced with the maid-of-honor, since apparently that was also a duty of the best man.

She'd flirted with him hard. Too hard. He'd had to move her hand from his ass twice. He'd tried to be nice, but eventually he'd said, "Listen, darlin', I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm really not up for that tonight."

She'd pouted and said, "Aw, come on, Eliot," and run her fingers down his jawbone, under his chin, and across his lips. For a second he'd considered it, just fucking her senseless, just so he could feel _something_ other than the numbness of the past week. Then he'd remembered his original plan for the wedding, to get laid and have a blast, but that was before ... No. It wouldn't be fair to her anyway; she deserved someone who would enjoy being with her.

He'd grabbed both her hands in his and pushed them away. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I wouldn't be much fun tonight. Go find another groomsman" — his heart had squeezed hard at that — "who'll be able to give you a better time than me. Don't worry," he'd added, as he saw her eyes flash toward Maria, "I'll tell her you tried, but that I was a stubborn bastard who somehow said no to a beautiful woman in his arms."

She'd looked relieved and not a little flattered, and looked over toward another one of the groomsmen she'd been flirting with earlier in the day.

"Go," he'd said, flashing his best fake smile and nodding toward the man. "Have fun." He'd kissed her on the cheek and said, in all sincerity, "And I really do appreciate you trying."

She'd skipped away, and he'd headed straight for the bar, where he'd been sitting for the past hour. He poured himself another glass and realized that the bottle was almost empty. _Who cares? Juan's paying for it._ He tossed that drink back, too.

He was trying to figure out how long he'd have to wait to leave before Maria wouldn't be pissed when he heard a phone ringing. He looked around, but no one else seemed to hear it. Juan and Maria were dancing, looking happy, and everyone was gathered around, taking pictures and smiling. He tried to figure out where it was coming from, and he thought it was coming from his jacket, draped over the back of his chair. He fished in the front inside pocket for longer than should have been necessary and pulled out his phone, frowning. He hadn't even realized he'd brought it with him. _Old habits,_ he thought darkly.

Who could possibly be calling him now? Anyone who had this number was here. But he was happy for a distraction, so he answered.

"Spencer," he said with more slur than he'd expected, but he didn't give a damn tonight.

"Spencer, my friend," a familiar voice purred. "I wasn't sure you'd pick up. Having fun?"

Eliot was suddenly alert. He spun around in his chair — a little too quickly, he realized as his stomach lurched — and his eyes darted around the room, searching for anything suspicious.

"What do you want, Moreau?" he growled, but it was much less intimidating when he couldn't even form the words properly.

Moreau chuckled gleefully. "You know, a lesser man might be offended by that greeting, but I've always had a weak spot for you. I want to talk."

"I'm not much on talkin', Moreau," Eliot said, still searching the room madly. It was difficult with the fog in his head.

"Let me do the talking, then. I want to meet."

Eliot forced a laugh. "Yeah, right. You think I'm an idiot?"

"No, I think you're a realist, Spencer. That's a lovely song, and the blushing bride and her father look so happy. Blood is such a bitch to get out of silk ... I'd hate to see the dress ruined."

Eliot's heart started to pound, and so did his head. He looked even more frantically to find a sniper or gunman, but he couldn't focus.

"Don't bother, Spencer. You wouldn't get there in time — certainly not in your condition." Moreau chuckled.

Eliot tried to stay calm. "What do you want?"

"I told you, I want to meet. My study, twenty minutes. Come alone, or you'll have to explain to Flores why his daughter died in his arms on her wedding night."

The line went dead.

Eliot was stunned. He sat for a few seconds, trying not to panic. He had to go. He stood up and the room spun. He looked over at the bottle of Jack — actually, he was seeing two of them now — and saw how empty it was.

_Fuck._

He went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror and was horrified by what he saw. Dark circles around his eyes — the nightmares of the past week had kept him from getting any sleep worth mentioning — bloodshot eyes, and he could have sworn one pupil was actually bigger than the other, though he had a hard time focusing on them. He was too drunk for this.

He focused on the remains of his tux. He'd left his jacket at the bar, so he had on his dress shirt, collar undone, bowtie untied around his neck, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and his vest unbuttoned. He took off the bowtie immediately. _Could be used as a garrote_. He moved toward the trashcan, but then slipped it into his pants pocket. _Could be used as a garrote, _he thought again, more hopefully.

He decided to keep on the vest, which could also be used as a weapon if necessary. Jesus, what kind of a person was he, looking at his half-tux and assessing its parts for usefulness in a fight?

_The kind of person who got a call from Damien Moreau in the middle of a wedding, that's who._

The pants were standard dress pants: too tight for anything but standing still. But he didn't have time to change or even anything to change into, and honestly, if he was attacked he'd have bigger things to worry about than his pants ripping.

Then he remembered: he had a single knife tucked into his sock, which was held up with those sock-suspender-thingies he never remembered the name of. _Also useful as a garrote_, he thought absently. He'd snuck the knife in without Maria knowing.

"No knives at my wedding, Eliot!" she'd scolded that morning when he'd started to put his knife holster under the vest. "This is not the American Wild West! Take it off!" He'd grumbled that guns, not knives, had been the weapon of choice in the Wild West, but he'd agreed, then snuck one knife into his sock when she wasn't looking.

_Just great,_ he thought. _Going to see Moreau armed with a knife, a bowtie, and some other tux accoutrements. What could possibly go wrong?_

He looked like a reject from prom night. Ready for a date with death.

He slapped his cheeks several times, hard. _A date with death?! What the fuck is wrong with you, Spencer?_ He was too drunk for this.

He splashed water on his face one last time and tried to make himself presentable. If he could look like he was okay, maybe they wouldn't try anything ... Fuck, who was he kidding? Moreau had seen him drinking.

He looked at his watch. He had ten minutes. He took a few deep breaths to try to calm himself, then left the bathroom and snuck away from the reception hall while everyone was busy with the dancing. He jogged to try to clear his head.

He was going alone, right into the lion's den. _With a knife, a bowtie, a vest, those sock-suspender-thingies, and too tight pants._ He didn't even have his cufflinks with him. And he was drunk. He was a dead man.

_Bring it on, Moreau._

.

.

.

Nine and a half minutes later, he burst through the door of Moreau's study. He was met by the sight and sound of a dozen men cocking and aiming their guns right at his chest. Chapman was front and center.

"Aw, Spencer, you didn't have to dress up just for us," he drawled.

The rage that boiled so close to the top these days — the only thing that ever displaced the emptiness, if only for a little bit — almost overwhelmed him. The booze didn't help. He had never hated the bastard more than in that moment.

"Now, Chapman," Moreau purred from behind his desk, "I want him to hear my offer before you two decide to finally have the angry sex you've been holding back on all this time."

The look on Chapman's face at the realization that his boss still didn't have any respect for him after nearly a year in the top job made Eliot laugh — actually laugh, like he thought it was funny. Maybe it really was funny, he didn't know. He was too damned drunk.

"Don't worry, Chapman," he winked, "Someday Daddy might appreciate you. But only if you're good." He smiled his most devilish grin as he thought of all the different ways he wanted to kill Chapman.

Chapman smiled and said, "He certainly appreciated my work in the warehouse last week. By the way, how's your little friend?"

Nope, _now_ he had never hated the bastard more. Before anyone had time to react, Eliot disarmed Chapman and hit him in the left side of the abdomen. He knew he'd hit the right spot as he saw the blood on his own fist and the red stain spreading on Chapman's shirt. Chapman fell to the ground with a yelp of pain as Eliot put his foot on the man's throat and pointed the gun at his head.

"Knife wounds are a bitch, aren't they?" he snarled. "Now you understand why I prefer them to guns, though for you I think I'll make an exception."

"You don't want to do that, Spencer," Moreau said, calm as always.

Eliot's eyes were still on Chapman as he said, "Oh, I really think I do." Then he turned and pointed the gun at Moreau and said, "And while I'm at it, I think I'll take care of you, too."

"You'll never get out of here alive," one of the men said.

Eliot turned and shouted to the room, "Do you think I give a fuck?! I was dead the moment I set foot in here! So go ahead! But if I'm going down, I may as well take as many of you with me as I can!"

"You really don't want to do that, Spencer," Moreau said quietly. Eliot turned to him; he was holding a phone to his ear and smiling. It was the smile Moreau always had on his face when he knew he had the upper hand.

"If you don't hear from me in the next ten seconds," Moreau said into the phone, never taking his eyes off Eliot, "open fire on the wedding, starting with the bride and groom." He spoke to Eliot. "Now, I asked you here to talk, Spencer. We can talk, or my man can start shooting. Your choice."

He smiled, and Eliot finally knew what the Devil looked like.

"Five seconds," Moreau said.

Eliot's hand holding the gun started to shake, and his heart — and head — pounded. This was his chance to get rid of Moreau for good … but not at the expense of everyone at the wedding. He wouldn't let anyone else die for his mistakes. _Never again._

He knew he'd lost. He lowered the gun, took out the magazine, and ejected the round from the chamber. He threw the gun to his left, away from everyone, and tossed the magazine onto Moreau's desk.

"Call him off," he nearly whispered.

Moreau smiled. "I knew you'd make the right choice. Standby," he said into the phone, and then he hung up. "Now, are you going to let Chapman up? He doesn't look too well."

"I'm good, thanks," Eliot said, crossing his arms. He kept his foot on Chapman's throat. The man could breathe, but he was in a lot of pain and bleeding quite a bit. Eliot smiled, but his heart squeezed in pain.

Moreau shrugged. "I'm good if you are."

"What the hell do you want, Moreau?"

Moreau smiled and sighed dramatically. "I really do miss you, Eliot. You always get right to the point. I'm here to make you an offer."

Eliot laughed again — he wished he'd stop it, none of this was actually funny, but the damned alcohol haze still surrounded his brain. "There's no way I'm agreeing to any fucking thing you offer me, Moreau."

Moreau's smile turned dark. "Ah, yes, well, I knew you would say that. But I really do think you should hear what I'm offering before you tell me to fuck off."

Eliot stood with his arms crossed. What could Moreau possibly be offering, and why in the hell wasn't he dead yet?

"I want you to leave San Lorenzo."

"Fuck off," Eliot snarled. "There's nothing you could do to make me leave."

"Oh, I know that's not true. If you don't leave, then I'll make sure all your little friends suffer for it," Moreau purred.

"You won't be able to touch them if I'm here, and you know it."

"Yes and no. You see, the lucky newlyweds are going off on their honeymoon tomorrow, to ... where was it, Chapman?"

Eliot smiled as he watched Chapman try to choke out an answer with Eliot's foot over his throat.

"Paris …"

Eliot smile faded as his stomach did a somersault.

"Yes, that's right, thank you, Chapman." Moreau smiled. "_Not_ to Rome, though I imagine that false information was your idea, wasn't it, Spencer?"

Eliot had known that the real honeymoon destination might be a target, so he'd suggested announcing a fake one. But Moreau had seen right through it. He should have known. _Moreau knows me._

"You won't be able to touch them, they'll be guarded the whole time," Eliot said, but his voice was shaking and still slurring slightly.

"But I won't have to." Moreau's voice was smooth as silk. "I'll just send someone in to check on the plane, and snip snip, they never arrive in Paris." He smiled at Eliot. "You know how these things are done, Spencer."

Eliot stood silently, mind whirling, trying to hide his growing terror. Moreau didn't make empty threats.

"So I'll go with them, check the plane, everything. You won't hurt a hair on their heads."

"Of course, but then who will protect General Flores? I've been meaning to get rid of him for _so_ long, and without his top man, I think I might just have a chance," Moreau cooed.

_He's going to make me choose,_ Eliot thought. _That's what he does._ It was stifling in the room, and he was starting to hyperventilate.

"But," Moreau continued. "If you leave, I promise not to touch them."

"Right, and you always keep your promises," Eliot snarled. He really wished he could form words without slurring.

"Spencer, if you left and I killed the entire Flores family — no, no, kill is too simple. If I had Chapman here take care of the Flores family" — his eyes sparkled with a sick pleasure as every single muscle in Eliot's body tensed — "what would you do? Honestly."

Eliot pushed down harder on Chapman's throat. "I'd kill you," he said simply. "In the worst way I know how. Wouldn't matter how many men you put in front of me, I'd get there."

Moreau's grin grew wider as Eliot spoke. Eliot wished he could do or say anything that could wipe that smug look off the bastard's face, but he knew better. Nothing could do that. Moreau was always in control.

"Exactly," Moreau said. "And, this may surprise you, but I have no desire to die at your hands. You're too good at what you do."

Eliot was surprised to see a tiny flicker of fear in Moreau's eyes. That was new. Maybe this offer was for real.

"So, I leave San Lorenzo and you leave the Flores family alone. Why don't you just kill me right now? I'm pretty drunk and I'm not armed, though I do have a hostage." He felt himself smirk as Chapman tensed.

_What the fuck are you doing, Spencer?! Do you want to die?!_

Moreau laughed. "Eliot, maybe it's the alcohol talking, but you really do have the biggest balls of any man I know! Even if I wanted to kill you, Flores wouldn't let me get away with it. But I could never kill you: you're the best. It would be like killing a prized thoroughbred after he won the Triple Crown, to use an American reference for you." He winked. "You're too valuable an asset, Eliot, and I hope one day you might be valuable to me again."

"Go to hell, Moreau," Eliot spat. The "asset" crap was bullshit for the men; he used that term all the time to keep people in line. The real reason was that Moreau knew the General would start an all-out war if he killed Eliot.

This time Moreau's smile was wistful. He shook his head in sadness. "You were the best, Eliot, my friend. I gave you everything, including free reign. I've never done that for anyone, before or since." Chapman coughed under Eliot's foot. "And you threw it all away to join Flores and his cute little army. We could have ruled the world together, you and I."

"I'm not too crazy about how you decided to get there," Eliot spat.

Moreau's eyes darkened. He was finished with playtime. "I want you gone," he snarled. "Stay out of my business, here and elsewhere." For the first time, he came around his desk and walked toward Eliot. "You see, I'm done with this backwater country. I'm too big for this little pond." He looked Eliot in the eyes. "I've always been destined for greater things," he said almost defensively, and Eliot saw something in the man's eyes that he'd never seen before. But it was gone in a flash, before he could identify it.

"So I'm branching out," Moreau continued, back in control. "My international contacts have helped me expand my business to the point where I need to be elsewhere, somewhere more central. Perhaps Berlin, or Paris." His eyes glinted with an evil Eliot had rarely seen. "And the only thing keeping me from fulfilling my full potential is you, Spencer. So I want you gone. You stay out of my business, and I'll stay out of yours. But the second you break your end of the bargain is the second I'll break mine."

Eliot couldn't believe what he was hearing. "So I leave and pretend I never knew you, and you leave the Flores family alone?" _This can't be for real._

"Exactly," Moreau purred. "So ... do we have a deal?"

Eliot was trying to weigh his options, but he knew he had no choice. The thought of leaving San Lorenzo, Juan, Matty and Maria, _Pete_ ... It was agony. But if he stayed, they'd all be dead — no, worse than dead.

"I need a week," Eliot lied, even though he knew Moreau would never agree.

"No," Moreau snapped. "You leave tonight. I don't want you to have any time to second guess or tip anyone off. I want you to go straight to the airport."

"I'm not leaving until I know that Matty and Maria are safely in Paris," Eliot countered. "Otherwise, how will I know you're not gonna go back on your word?"

Moreau considered it. "Fine," he agreed. "But as soon as that plane lands, I want yours taking off. And I never want to see you again."

Moreau walked up to him and gently grabbed his arms, just like Juan always did. Moreau looked him in the eyes, and Eliot saw only evil. He felt sick at the thought that he had once admired this man.

"Eliot, I truly am sorry. I wish things had ended differently between us. We could have ruled the world, with me at the helm and you at my right side. We were the best. You could have had everything." Moreau shook his head. "I'll miss our little chats, my friend." Then his voice grew low and dark, and he said, "You'll regret making an enemy of me."

Eliot shrugged off the hands and said in a voice to match Moreau's, "That's the one thing in my life I'll never regret, Damien." He was stone-cold sober.

Then he raised his voice, because he wanted to make sure all the men heard it, but the darkness and threat remained. "I'll be keeping tabs, Moreau. If I hear that anyone in the Flores family dies or gets hurt because of anything other than natural causes, I'll be back. And it won't be pretty. I'll get past all your men, no matter how many there are, because I know how they work. I did train them, after all." He smiled the Rottweiler's most dangerous smile. "And when I get to you, you'll regret you ever made an enemy of _me_. You know exactly what I'm capable of. My work is, as you say, 'inspired'. And I'll do my worst, Moreau. Don't think for a second that I'll hold back."

He looked down at Chapman. He removed his foot from the man's throat, but before he moved away, he stomped on the knife wound. Chapman howled in pain. "You really should get that looked at," Eliot said with a smile. "Until next time, Chapman."

He turned back to Moreau, his eyes filled with more hate and anger than he'd ever known, and said, "Goodbye, Damien."

Then he turned around and walked out of Moreau's study for the last time.

.

.

.

When he returned to the reception, the party was still in full swing. Eliot had no doubt that it would go until dawn. He went back to his place at the bar. It was the same as before, and yet completely different.

His world had just been turned upside-down. He hadn't given any thought to when he might leave San Lorenzo. He had just recently decided to stay until Moreau was defeated. Now he was being forced to leave, and Moreau was going international. He looked around the room at the Flores family. They had saved him … they'd help him start to feel again. And now he had to leave.

Maybe it was better this way. When he wasn't swallowed by the emptiness, he was filled with rage, and that wasn't much help to anyone.

He looked at the nearly empty bottle of Jack. It made him want to vomit.

"Eliot!" He turned and there was Juan, buzzed and happy as a clam. He sat next to Eliot clumsily and leaned his arms on the bar. "Where did you sneak off to? Maria said you turned down the lovely maid-of-honor whose name escapes me right now —" He chuckled. "— but I hope you snuck off with another of the guests for some fun." He nudged Eliot suggestively with his elbow.

Eliot looked at him. How could he possibly tell him this?

Juan knew immediately that something was wrong. He could always tell. He frowned and said, "What's happened? Is everything okay?"

Eliot looked into his empty glass and said, "No, nothing is okay. I just got back from meeting with Moreau."

Juan was suddenly sober. _Wish I could have done that earlier_. "Moreau? You — you _met _with him? Just now? How are you ... ? Why?"

Eliot decided to answer the last question first. The others just didn't matter. But he didn't want to worry Juan, so he said, "He threatened you, so I had to go. He made me an offer."

Juan's eyes widened with worry. "What kind of offer?"

As Eliot told him, he saw the fear and worry in Juan's eyes turn to anger, then immense sadness. He was silent for a long time after Eliot finished.

"There's no other way?" he asked. His eyes begged.

"There's not," Eliot said. "I have to be gone once Maria and Matty have landed in Paris."

Juan's eyes filled with a grief that Eliot had only seen when Juan thought about Berto, and his heart broke.

"Juan, please ... " He looked away. "I have to do this. I'm sorry."

Juan said nothing.

"Listen. Moreau is leaving. He's always hated San Lorenzo, because —"

Eliot remembered the defensiveness in Moreau's voice and the flash in his eyes. He recognized it now, and it made him smile.

"— because Moreau has daddy issues, just like the rest of us. But he's leaving. He'll leave a small contingent, but it shouldn't be anything you can't handle. I'm sure he'll keep this as a safe-haven, but he won't be terrorizing you on a daily basis. You can take your country back, Juan."

Juan's eyes were filled with grief. "And the price is losing you."

A lump formed in Eliot's throat. _No. The price is losing you._

He looked Juan in the eyes. "I will never forget what you've done for me, Juan. I'll be forever in your debt. And don't give me that bullshit about me saving your life twice." He smiled. "First of all, it's once and a half. And second …"

His voice gave out. He took a few deep breaths and continued. "Thank you. For everything."

Juan's eyes filled with tears.

"I wanted more than anything to help you beat the bastard," Eliot spat. "But you're going to have to do that without me."

"Eliot," Juan said, "we can figure out a way —"

"No!" Eliot said sharply. "I have too much blood on my hands already! I won't add yours to it!"

He took a deep breath and stood up. "I need to go. I can't stay here. Tell Maria and Matty ..." He didn't know what else to say.

"You have to say goodbye, Eliot."

"And ruin their wedding? Look at them." They both turned and watched for a moment as Matty and Maria danced together. She was smiling, eyes closed, and her head was on his shoulder; he was smiling, too, one hand on her waist, the other stroking her hair, whispering something into her ear. "This is the happiest they've ever been, and maybe ever will be. And they deserve it. I won't ruin that for them. I can't take that away. Just ... just …" He was having difficulty speaking. "Please explain why I had to go. And tell them that I ... " He looked away.

"Eliot." As he turned back, Juan embraced him for what they both knew was the last time. Then he took Eliot by the arms, as he always had, looked into his eyes and said, "Eliot Spencer, you are a good man. You have done some terrible things, and you will never be clean of them, but you are and always have been a good man. Never forget that. Death is too easy, but so is life if you never live it." Eliot's eyes stung as Juan quoted those words. "You can do good, Eliot, and you will. I have faith in you. I am _proud _of you."

Eliot closed his eyes until he could regain control. He would never be able to tell Juan how much it meant to him to hear those words. "Thank you," he said thickly, "for everything."

Then he turned and left the wedding reception. Eight hours later he was on a plane, leaving San Lorenzo for the last time.

.

.

.

As he finished the story, he looked at the team. Sophie was silently crying. Parker was, too, but not like before. Hardison was staring at his computer screen through unshed tears, and Nate—well, Nate was unreadable, as always.

It was Matty who spoke first, his voice thick with emotion. "El ... I had no idea ... you _met_ with him? How could you be so stupid?"

"I didn't have a choice, Matty. He had someone there, and he threatened to kill Maria while she danced with Juan." He looked at Matty, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. "He would have done it, Matty, at your wedding. It would have broken you. And it would have — Matty, it would have broken _Juan_." Matty's eyes flashed with grief, but he nodded in understanding. "I couldn't stop it, and I couldn't let it happen. So I did what he asked."

"But you were drunk ... and you met with Damien Moreau?" Matty shook his head in disbelief. "How did he not kill you?"

"He didn't want to," Eliot explained. "If he had, I'd be dead. But what would you have done if Moreau had killed your best man?"

He regretted the words as soon as he said them. Matty's eyes flickered with pain at the same time Eliot's heart seared with it. It was a horrible choice of words, but Eliot was comforted to know that he wasn't alone in still feeling the pain eight years later.

"We'd have thrown everything we had at him," Matty said darkly. "Juan would've —"

"Exactly," Eliot said. "Moreau didn't want a war, he just wanted to be left alone. If Moreau had killed me, you would have started a war. If I had even attempted to kill him, he would have started a war. And if he had killed you … _I_ would have started a war," he finished darkly.

"Mutually assured destruction." Nate sounded as though he finally understood.

"Exactly," Eliot said to Nate's chest. He still couldn't look the man in the eyes, and certainly not now.

Nate spoke as though he was thinking aloud. "'_Because I was trying to figure out a way around this, maybe take my shot … _'" Eliot was surprised to hear his own words from the park come out of Nate's mouth. "You were going to go after Moreau. Alone."

Sophie gasped. "What? Eliot, you wouldn't! You're not that man anymore!"

"But he would've been, to protect the Flores family," Hardison said, finally looking at Eliot. Eliot saw sadness, and pity, and something else ... _Respect?_

"To protect _us_," Parker corrected. The betrayal was gone from her eyes, and Eliot was relieved. Now there was only sadness. It still hurt Eliot's heart to see it in her eyes, but the sadness would fade.

"Exactly," Nate said. "'_I'm protecting you … Last time I checked that's my job,'_" he quoted Eliot again.

"To protect you all." Eliot stared at the floor as a lump formed in his throat. "That's my — I made a promise …"

He looked up at them, and they all looked back, expectantly. They deserved the truth. He'd been hiding from them for too long. He took a deep breath.

"I never wanted this war. But it was mine. Moreau and I struck a deal, a ceasefire, until that damned Italian bitch came along and dragged us all into it. I knew that if we fired the first shot, we were all dead. So for six months I tried to figure out a way around it, and there was a point when I actually thought I could do it. Then she moved up the deadline."

He closed his eyes and took a couple of breaths. His heart was pounding. He opened his eyes and continued.

"But I thought there still might be a way to take a shot without him knowing it. That's why I took Hardison to the hotel, and let him nearly drown at the bottom of a pool." He looked Hardison in the eyes. His voice had started to shake. "I had to do it. To try to keep us all alive. I'm sorry."

Hardison nodded in understanding. Eliot forced himself to look at the rest of the team. "I should have told you all before, but I knew you wouldn't let me do what I knew needed to be done."

He took another deep, shaky breath. He had to finish. He owed it to them.

"It almost worked, too. But somehow he figured out I was involved. Probably because it was too damned suspicious that he discovered the Italian undercover in his posse the day after I came out of nowhere and asked him to let me into his auction. That was the first shot."

_Literally._ He looked down at the table and tried to push the sounds and images of the warehouse from his mind.

"That's why the General and his family were in hiding — because I broke my end of the bargain, and Moreau was going to make good on his threat. I never thought that just a phone call could …"

He paused, took a deep breath, and looked up. Then he froze, and his voice died in his throat.

"My, my. Eliot Spencer, talking about his feelings? Buckle up, everyone, the apocalypse is coming."

They all turned at the voice. Maria Flores stood in the doorway, arms crossed. She was smiling, but there was a familiar fire in her eyes. She glowed with the radiance of pregnancy, and Eliot was struck by how beautiful she was now. It may have been due to her massive size, but she looked mature, refined.

And very pissed.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Eliot didn't know if it was because he hadn't seen it in eight years, or because it really was different, but Maria's smile, combined with the familiar fire in her eyes, was more terrifying than he had remembered.

_Breathe, Spencer._ He'd stopped mid-sentence when he'd seen her, and hadn't taken a breath since. When he finally did, he also realized he didn't have any saliva.

He glared at Matty – _A little warning next time, Ramirez? _– but noticed, perhaps a little too gleefully, that Matty seemed just as surprised to see his wife as Eliot was.

_What exactly was your plan, Matty?_ It had apparently included Maria speaking with the press, but _not_ her coming to campaign headquarters. Maybe he'd been attempting to head off the conflict that was obviously brewing right now.

As Maria waltzed into the room – graceful as always, in spite of her massive size – her eyes flashed in Eliot's direction. He opened his mouth to speak – to say what, he wasn't sure – but before he could manage anything, Maria's attention shifted to the image of herself paused on Hardison's screen.

"Oh my God," she groaned, hands covering her face. "I look like a hot air balloon!"

"Nonsense, darling," Sophie cooed. "You look lovely."

_Thank God._ Sophie was great at diffusing tension, especially female-weight-related tension. Every man in the room, including Maria's own husband, had tensed at her remark.

"And you did a wonderful job," Sophie was saying. "Hardison said your interview already has several hundred thousand looks."

"Views," Hardison corrected in his Tormented Hacker tone. "Several hundred thousand _views_. Don't you people listen?"

Eliot couldn't keep from rolling his eyes but was glad for the distraction. He needed time to figure out what to say.

"I'm sorry," Maria said in a tone similar to Sophie's. "I don't think I properly introduced myself. I'm Maria Flores."

She held out her hand, and Sophie took it.

"Sophie Devereaux. But I'm afraid you'll need to address me as – "

"Rebecca Ibañez, future first lady of San Lorenzo, yes." Maria smiled for real this time, and Eliot was reminded of the woman in the video, not the 17-year-old he'd seen last. "You've really done wonders with Michael. The poor thing is usually scared to even speak up in a meeting, much less talk in front of reporters or on national television. He's terrified about the debate. I saw him outside … I think he was headed to the bathroom to throw up."

"Well I have a great pep talk planned for him. He'll be great." Sophie seemed surprisingly calm for someone whose public-speaking disaster of a future president was puking his guts out at the thought of debating his opponent.

_Must be some pep talk._

Parker popped up from her seat like a jack-in-the-box and stuck out her hand. "Nice to meet you, General. I'm Parker."

Eliot couldn't keep a groan from escaping, but he was able to keep its volume low enough so as not to draw Maria's attention back to him. Next to him, Matty snorted, probably at the bemused look on Maria's face as she shook Parker's hand.

"You may be confused, sweetie. My father is the General, not me."

"Don't even try," Hardison warned. "You'll just go down the rabbit hole. Alec Hardison, by the way."

"Nice to meet you both." Maria met Eliot's gaze, and he prepared to speak again – still not sure what to say – but then she turned to Nate. "And you must be Nathan Ford. I've heard all about you and your band of thieves here – through Papa, of course." Her voice had a steely note in it. "He just couldn't stop talking about how you somehow got Eliot to work on a team again. I gather you're here to help us win our country back?"

"Steal it back, actually," Nate corrected.

Maria raised an eyebrow. Juan must have explained to her at least part of the plan, because her reaction to a thief saying he was going to steal her country was too tame.

"But don't worry," Nate continued. "That's what we do. Ribera and Moreau stole it from the people of San Lorenzo. We're going to steal it back for them."

Maria's eyebrow shot even farther up her forehead. "I should have known that when Eliot finally came back, it would only be under ... _unique_ circumstances."

At the word "unique", she finally turned her full attention to Eliot. The dangerous smile was back.

_Uh-oh._ "Maria – "

He reflexively took a step backward. Yes, Eliot Spencer had fought and defeated countless bad guys with names like the Butcher of Kiev – twice, in that guy's case – but a nine-month-pregnant Maria Flores made him take a step back. Bad guys he knew how to handle. He'd never been able to "handle" Maria.

"Eliot Spencer." She spoke in the honeyed tone that always preceded her explosions. "So nice to see you again. It's been too long – what, eight years?"

She advanced more quickly than he was expecting – she was almost right in front of him. The closest exit was the window Parker had jumped out of earlier, and he sure as hell wasn't going to do that.

"Maria, I – "

He'd expected the hit to the face. He even sort of expected it to hurt as much as it did – he was the one who'd taught her how to do it, after all.

But he didn't expect the second hit to his solar plexus, or the third to the other side of his face. That was Matty's style, not his.

"Jesus, Maria!" the man yelled as he rushed to his wife's side. He'd clearly been teaching her things over the past eight years.

Eliot's reflexes had engaged just in time to keep him breathing and prevent a black eye, but the momentum Maria gained from her massive size – which he'd also underestimated – pushed him into the wall.

"Maria – " he coughed.

"Don't 'Maria' me, Eliot. You didn't even say goodbye, you bastard! And I haven't heard from you in eight years. _Eight years!_"

"Hardison, do you have any popcorn? I like watching Eliot getting beat up by a girl," Parker said in an attempted whisper – she didn't really seem to get how it worked.

"It really is a bit like a soap opera, isn't it?" Sophie _actually_ whispered.

Eliot didn't have the air to growl, but the glare he threw their way seemed to lessen the hilarity of the situation.

But Maria wasn't finished. "Do you know how I know it's been eight years, Eliot? Because you left the night of my wedding, and every year on my anniversary I tick off another year you haven't been around. No visits, no phone calls, no letters. Nothing! The only way I know you're even alive is when you decide to call Papa every couple of years!"

He finally had enough breath – and the words – to start crafting a defense. "Maria, I didn't have a choice. Moreau would've killed you –"

"You could have said goodbye, Eliot! You came back to the wedding and talked to Papa, the least you could have done was tell me!"

"I didn't want to ruin everything … You were so happy –"

"So you had me trade a few weeks of happiness for eight years of heartbreak? You're a bastard, Eliot Spencer." She spat his name like it was a nasty taste in her mouth.

He winced, but not at the epithet. He had never wanted to hurt them. That had been the whole point. "I thought I was doing what was best –"

"What was best for us, or what was best for you?" She was nearly hysterical now, tears streaming down her face. "Do you have any idea how much it hurt, Eliot?"

"Maria, honey, why don't you sit down for a few minutes?"

Matty had finally decided to step in. When she rounded on him, Eliot understood why it had taken him so long.

"And _you_! He came to our house yesterday, didn't he? He was there, and you didn't tell me!"

Eliot noticed – again, a little gleefully – that Matty, too, took a step back as his wife advanced. He hadn't told her? What in the hell had his plan actually been?

"Wha – How the hell do you know that?" Matty stammered.

"Berto told me!"

"Berto? He was napping –"

"Well apparently he wasn't actually asleep. He heard a strange voice in the living room, so he snuck out of bed, and –"

"Dammit, Maria, I told you he wasn't old enough for a big boy bed!"

"All the books say that now's the right time, Matty," Maria screeched, as if _that_ was the last straw. "And don't change the subject! He told me he looked into the living room and saw his papa talking with a strange man with long hair, blue eyes, and a blue shirt – "

Matty frowned. "Wait, he was wearing a red shirt."

Maria's wrath dissolved in an instant as her eyes filled with tears again. "He was? So he's still confusing red and blue? What's wrong with him?" Her last sentence was almost a whimper, as if the future of a toddler who didn't know his colors was almost too horrific to contemplate.

Matty's voice was gentler than Eliot had ever heard it. "He's three, Maria, there's nothing wrong with him. We'll just keep working on it."

He reached out to touch her arm, but instead of comforting her, the action seemed to snap her out of Concerned Mother mode and back into Woman Scorned mode.

"That's beside the point, Matty! It doesn't matter what color his shirt was. He got the eyes right, didn't he, and he said the man was muscle-y and had blue eyes and long hair and _talked with a funny accent_." Matty winced as she poked him in the chest on the last phrase.

"I do not have a funny accent," Eliot muttered, against his better judgment.

Parker snorted. "Yeah you do!"

Hardison mumbled, "At least to a three-year-old."

Eliot shot them all another glare, but the damage was done. Maria's eyes had filled with tears yet again, but not tears of anger at him or Matty, or concern over Berto's lack of color knowledge. These tears were much, much worse.

Heartbreak.

"Yes, it would sound funny to Berto, because he's never heard it before," she said. "How could he, unless he was eight?"

Matty moved forward to comfort her, but she didn't see it because she had already launched herself at Eliot.

He braced for another hit, but it never came. Instead, she threw her arms around him and pulled his as close as her large belly would allow. Then she buried her head in his shoulder and started to sob.

"Oh God, Eliot, I missed you so much!"

Overwhelmed, Eliot held her tight and stroked her hair, like he had when she'd needed comforting years ago. It suddenly became very difficult to see, and he felt a sting in his throat. "I missed you, too, kiddo," he managed to say.

They stood there in each other's arms for what seemed like an eternity. Eight years was a long time.

When she finally pulled away, he wished she hadn't.

"I'm sorry," she said thickly, wiping her eyes. "Hormones. And I'm not a kid, anymore, Eliot, in case you haven't noticed."

He couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. "I did notice, sweetheart. Look at you, all grown up and saving San Lorenzo. And you're a mom …" His voice gave out. Eight years _was_ a long time.

"You look beautiful," he finished.

Maria's eyes widened, and she _giggled_. "Don't you dare try that on me," she said as she flushed, and she smacked his arm playfully. "You haven't changed a bit. Still handsome and flirty as ever."

A deep, guttural noise emanated from Matty.

Eliot threw him a look that said, _You've got to be kidding me, right?_ Matty responded with a particularly nasty glare.

Eliot rolled his eyes. He certainly hadn't missed that. Glares were a Matty Ramirez specialty.

"I saw your interview on the way back," Maria continued with a smile, as if she hadn't noticed the exchange. Maybe she hadn't. "The women were all swooning. How many have asked for your number so far?"

"Seven," said Hardison with a shake of his head. "Ridiculous, right?"

"Yes it is," Matty grumbled.

Just to screw with them, Eliot grinned and said, "What can I say? Puppies and babies are chick magnets."

But Maria suddenly stopped smiling. She looked down at her belly and said wistfully, "You've never met Berto. I hope you will before you leave. He's wonderful, and so smart ... Except that he still doesn't know the difference between red and blue." Her Concerned Mother look was back.

Before Matty could step in, Eliot lifted her chin and said, "Don't worry, darlin'. He'll get it. Plus, in his defense, I was wearing a very bluish-looking red shirt yesterday."

He winked. It did its job – she smiled again.

"Damn, I missed you," she said.

Nate cleared his throat. "If I may interrupt. I have a few questions related to the job at hand."

Eliot felt himself flush. He'd almost forgotten the team was there. Sure, Hardison and Parker had piped up a couple times with sarcastic comments, but he suddenly felt self-conscious at the idea that Nate had been watching the whole time.

Sophie had either noticed Eliot's reaction or had come to her own conclusion, because she shot Nate a glare that made _him_ flush slightly. But, being Nate, he cleared his throat and continued with the "job at hand."

"If you're the true heir apparent, Maria, then why are we grooming Michael Vittori for president and not you? It seems like you'd probably make our job much easier."

He chuckled. No one else did.

"You'll have to ask Matty about that." Maria's voice was dark as she turned to her husband.

"Maria, we _both_ agreed that with the babies —"

"Oh, don't play stupid, Mateo Ramirez." Her tone was derisive, and the look on Matty's face told Eliot that she still only used his full name when she was pissed. "You know that was when Papa had everything under control. Then he went and got himself arrested, but you wouldn't let me come out as the next candidate in line —"

Eliot's heart started to pound. Was she actually suggesting that _she_ should have taken Juan's place?

"Jesus Christ, Maria," he said vehemently. "They would have arrested you and you'd be right down there with him! You think Moreau gives a _damn_ if you're nine months pregnant with twins? Are you even thinking about your children? How can you be so damned selfish?"

Silence filled the room. Maria's eyes flashed, but she wasn't smiling this time. Somehow, that was even more terrifying.

"Selfish?" She asked in a deadly whisper. "I'm doing this _for_ them, Eliot. I refuse to let my children grow up in a country where they have to live in fear. Where their grandfather, a leading candidate for president, gets arrested just for making a damned phone call!"

_A phone call to me._ Unlike her earlier hit, Maria's words knocked all of the breath from Eliot. This was his fault. All of it. If he hadn't made the call … If he'd just finished Moreau when he'd had the chance …

"Maria, I –"

"That was my fault." Hardison's voice was heavy with guilt. "I tried to secure it, but I didn't count on Manticore coming back to bite us in the ass."

"No, it was _Papa's_ fault. I _told_ him it was a bad idea." Matty tensed, and Maria's voice was bitter. This had clearly been a point of contention. "But he said that you had a plan to defeat Moreau, and that it would be secure. I tried to get him to understand just what Manticore could do, that we have no way of beating it, but he wouldn't listen."

"You guys know about Manticore?" Hardison sounded impressed.

"Of course. Last year Moreau acquired it from an American who went to jail, and he's been using it against us ever since."

The team all shifted guiltily. Nate cleared his throat again. "Yes … that was us. We didn't realize that having him arrested would allow even more people to use his software, and we certainly didn't expect Moreau to come out on top."

Maria's eyes widened, and Matty's jaw actually dropped.

"You …?" Maria was speechless. "You were responsible for the arrest of Larry Duberman? Wha – How did you ... ?"

"That's what we do," Nate said. "We help people who have nowhere else to turn. We use our particular set of skills as criminals to steal things back and make the bad guys pay. We provide ... leverage."

There it was. The team all rolled their eyes, including – especially? – Sophie.

"Is he always like this?" Matty asked under his breath.

"You have no idea," Hardison answered under his.

But Maria turned to Eliot and beamed. "So it's true, then. You found a way to do good, just like Papa always said you would."

He felt another pang of guilt at the second mention of Juan. "Maria, I – if I hadn't called him … he should be here right now."

"He's not dead, so stop pouting," she snapped. "We're going to get him out."

Eliot remembered the dead-end conversation with Juan; the frustrated discussion with Parker; Nate begging, _"Help me finish this. Please."_ Moreau's threat replayed in his head for the millionth time since yesterday: _"Make it interesting, Ford."_

Suddenly he was overwhelmed by a deep sense of despair. _We can't do this. We're out of our league._

"Maria … it's the Tombs … he won't come unless … we _can't_ …"

"Of course we can." Her voice was odd. Like in the video. She was trying to rally the troops. "We'll figure out something. Matty's studied the blueprints for years, he can –"

"No! I'm not getting you guys any more involved than you already are. I told your father I'd make sure you'd be safe, not put you in more danger!"

Maria's face darkened. "Then why did you even come to us for help at all?"

"I don't –"

"Yes you do! Why?"

"I don't fucking know, okay?"

She advanced on him, but didn't strike. "Don't you _dare_ use language like that around my children." Then she cradled her belly, and in a voice as light and fluffy as it was dark and deadly only a moment earlier, she cooed, "I'm sorry, my darlings, your Uncle Eliot used a bad word. Just pretend you didn't hear it."

Parker's eyes were wide.

Maria continued, her voice filled with derision this time. "Jesus, Eliot, you haven't changed even a little bit in eight years, have you? Always blaming yourself when things go wrong, instead of just moving on and fixing them. When are you going to stop living in the past and start focusing on the future? When are you going to stop blaming yourself for everything that's happened?"

Memories started to flash – memories of Moreau, and Chapman, the Perezes, and Pete – but he pushed them away. "Never."

"Why?"

"Because that's how I know I'm not like him."

He looked at the floor as his eyes started to sting. No one said anything. No one even breathed.

"Is that what you think?" Maria asked breathlessly. "That unless you torture yourself, you'll be like Moreau? Eliot, you are _not_ like him. You stopped that a long time ago, and you've been a good person ever since."

He pictured the carnage in the warehouse. "You have no idea what I've been doing since then."

"I know you've been working with Nate Ford for the past three years. And he just told me you help people. You do good, Eliot. You're a good person."

"Don't say that! You don't –"

"You'd better not be about to swear again in front of your niece and nephew, Eliot Spencer!"

"Don't say that, Maria," Eliot said quietly. "I'm not your brother. Save that title for Roberto. He deserved it."

Maria's lips formed a thin line. "Oh, so you don't just carry the guilt, now you also don't deserve to be loved?"

Eliot's heart was pounding now, and he was starting to hyperventilate. He couldn't be here anymore. He couldn't talk about this. Not in front of the team.

"I'm not having this conversation with you, Maria." He turned toward the door.

"That's right, run away, it's what you do best!"

He spun around. "Dammit, Maria, I left because I had to! You know that!"

"I'm not talking about then, Eliot. I'm talking about now."

That's when he realized: she knew. She knew he was leaving the team. _How can she possibly know?_

Because she knew him. She was right. He hadn't changed in eight years.

He couldn't deal with this right now. He turned to leave again, but as always, she had one final parting shot.

"Eliot Spencer, when are you going to let yourself love and be loved? Don't you know _that's_ what makes you different from him? No one loves Damien Moreau, and he doesn't love anyone but himself."

Her words pierced his heart like a knife hitting the bullseye. He winced. Did she know how much that hurt?

It was one thing to accuse him of not letting people love him — that was actually true. He knew he didn't deserve it. But to accuse Eliot of not loving anyone but himself? To compare Eliot to _him_? Was that what she thought? Was that what they all thought?

He couldn't let her get away with that. He didn't care that the team was there, that Nate was watching. He spun around and looked her straight in the eyes.

"You think I left because I _didn't _love you?" His voice was like sandpaper. The lump in his throat was the size of a softball, and he could barely see. "Do you think I keep people out, push people away, leave before things get too serious and run away when they do because I _don't_ care?"

He was shaking now. "If that's what you think of me, Maria, then you don't know me at all."

He turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him.


End file.
